


Scottish Rose

by merrymegtargaryen



Category: The Spanish Princess (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, From Sex to Love, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, Mid-Canon, OR IS IT, Post-Canon, Rating May Change, Scottish Accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:00:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/pseuds/merrymegtargaryen
Summary: When Meg first came to Scotland, her husband handed her a flower she’d never seen before, an ugly, prickly thing with a rounded purple head.“This is a thistle,” he’d told her. “It’s the flower of Scotland. It’s not a pretty thing. It’s coarse and prickly, as it needs to be to grow here. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and not for the weak. You are a Tudor rose, Meg, pretty as they come, but you must be strong, too, if you are to be queen.”She had held her head up high at that. “Even roses have thorns, my lord.”He had laughed that great booming laugh of his. “That they do, my lady. That they do indeed.”
Relationships: Margaret Tudor/Alexander Stewart
Comments: 97
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to another installment of "Meg Tudor and Alexander Stewart have more sexual chemistry than literally any canon pairing on this show and I'm very horny about it." This is an au where Meg continues to think with her p*$$y instead of her brain but Alexander Stewart gets there before Angus does and we're all the happier for it. 
> 
> Huge thanks as always must go to itslaurenmae for planting the seed and encouraging me in all things Meg/Alexander <3

When Meg first came to Scotland, her husband handed her a flower she’d never seen before, an ugly, prickly thing with a rounded purple head. 

“This is a thistle,” he’d told her. “It’s the flower of Scotland. It’s not a pretty thing. It’s coarse and prickly, as it needs to be to grow here. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and not for the weak. You are a Tudor rose, Meg, pretty as they come, but you must be strong, too, if you are to be queen.”

She had held her head up high at that. “Even roses have thorns, my lord.”

He had laughed that great booming laugh of his. “That they do, my lady. That they do indeed.”

.

Meg may have her thorns, but the Scottish lairds are as coarse and prickly as their thistles. They show her every courtesy due a queen, but it is clear that they do not like her. 

“Why do they not?” she asks her husband, who only laughs. 

“You’re an English princess, Meg; the Scots and the English haven’t liked each other since your King Longshanks tried to rule us.”

“He didn’t try to rule,” she protests. “He helped find a new king is all.”

James just pats her on the cheek. “As you say, my love.”

James does that a lot. Pats her on the cheek and says something placating, like, “as you say,” or “if it please you.” It reminds her of her father.

_ But he is not my father, and my father never talked to my mother this way. _ Her mother had been a strong woman loved and respected by all. Meg? Meg cannot even gain the respect of her own husband, let alone his lairds.

And the lairds do  _ not _ respect her. Oh, they address her as “Your Grace” and “my queen” and bow and show the proper displays of deference, of course, but they either talk at her or over her, and no one ever seems to listen when she tries to speak. 

The worst of them is Alexander Stewart, her husband’s cousin and younger brother to the Duke of Albany. Because the duke spends so much time abroad, preferring his mother’s country of France to the rough and rugged Scotland, his younger brother has been appointed to represent his interests at court. Alexander is a young upstart happy to wield his brother’s name and influence wherever he can, and Meg hates him almost as much as he hates her. He calls her “woman” and she calls him a pig, to the point where it almost seems they’ve forgotten each other’s true names.

“Don’t let my cousin get under your skin,” James tells her after an argument that’s left her flushed and shaking. “He’d rankle the pope himself if he could.”

“You should send him back to Albany and send for his brother instead.”

James roars with laughter at that.

“What is it?”

“Well...Albany isnae really, ah, a  _ specific _ place he can go to. See,  _ Alba _ is just the Gaelic word for Scotland. The Duke of Albany is just a title sometimes given to the king’s younger brother and his descendants.”

Meg wishes her husband would tell her these things more often, instead of patting her cheek and placating her. She wishes he would see her as an equal, as his fellow sovereign, and not just breeding stock. 

And that’s all she seems to do once she reaches the age to bear children. She seems to be constantly pregnant or recovering from giving birth, and then it’s right back to being pregnant again.

What’s worse, she  _ must _ be constantly pregnant, because none of her babes survive infancy. Her fourth child, third son, and the second one named James, is the first to live. But they cannot stop there, she knows all too well. Anything could happen to their second James, so they must keep having children, until their line is secure.

It’s tiring, to be so constantly devoted to birthing, but it is her duty. Her own mother had borne eight children, and her maternal grandmother had borne  _ twelve _ children. Four is nothing.

Worse still is the knowledge that other women have given James healthy children. His by-blows were all born before they wed, but it stings to watch his bastard children grow to an age her children never have. Even her little Jamie, who seems healthy now, may not live that long. What happens if she can’t give James the heirs he needs? Both of his younger brothers are dead, so who will rule? What will happen to Scotland? 

She asks her husband as much, and gets the same answer as always: a pat on the cheek, and a, “Don’t worry your pretty head about that, lass.”

It irritates her, the constant patting and placating, so when she’s had enough wine at the reception for the French ambassador, she asks the nearest nobleman she knows: Alexander Stewart.

“Who will rule after my husband if we do not have any children?” she asks bluntly. 

He huffs, as if it is beneath him to answer such a question. No surprise there. “Didn’t yer husband tell ye?”

“My husband doesn’t tell me anything,” she says with the frankness of one in their cups. 

He takes a sip of his own drink, regarding her warily. “And why are ye asking?”

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but my children keep dying.” She clears her throat. “I want to know what is going to happen if I can’t give my husband an heir.”

His eyes don’t  _ soften, _ exactly, but he looks at her differently. Like a person, maybe, and not just the “woman.” In a gentler (or at least less-gruff) tone, he says, “My brother, John Stewart, is next in line, after yer son James. Our father, Alexander Stewart, was the second son of James II, and younger brother to James III.”

“My husband’s father.”

“Aye.” He hesitates. “There will be...more children, Your Grace…”

“Please don’t,” she says wearily. “I know. My mother buried five children of her own. It’s...God’s will. Or so they tell me.” She forces a smile. “It may please you to know that James wants to name our next son Alexander.”

His beard twitches in what she thinks is a smile. “I’ll bet ye hate that.”

“I do,” she says cheerfully. 

“Yer gonna call him a pig, too?”

“No, no; I shall call him Alexander. You, I will continue calling a pig, so as to differentiate between the two of you.”

He throws back his head and laughs, and Meg thinks she may not hate him so much after all.

.

Their next child is a son, and they do name him Alexander, to the elder Alexander’s amusement. 

“Guess this makes me a pig forever,” he jests when next he sees Meg. 

“You were always going to be a pig forever,” she informs him, and he laughs again.

.

There is no laughter, though, when Anne of Brittany sends her glove to James, calling on the Auld Alliance. 

Meg doesn’t understand the point of some old alliance with France when Scotland has a much more recent one with England.  _ She’s _ the proof of that, certainly. Yes, her brother has been slow to pay her dowry, but Henry and James are brothers bound by the law now, kings uniting their lands after years of war and bloodshed. So why should James try to turn against Henry for more of the same? Just because some woman in France sends a glove smelling of a whore’s flannel?  _ Meg _ is James’s wife and mother to his heirs. Surely that is more important than an alliance made over two hundred years ago?

She doesn’t understand it, and James, as usual, does nothing to help her understand. This time, however, Meg doesn’t plan to let it go. She’s tired of being patted on the cheek, she’s tired of being nothing more than breeding stock, she’s tired, she’s  _ so tired. _

So she decides to ride after her husband, and show him her thorns.

.

James thinks her coming to stop him is a woman’s foolishness, and she doesn’t even need to look to know the lairds are rolling their eyes at one another. They are determined to take London while Henry is away fighting the French, and nothing Meg or Catherine says can stop them.

Her sister-in-law is armored and heavily pregnant, and though her pride is wounded, she agrees to withdraw so long as James does not run her down and harm her child. 

He takes so long to answer that Meg fears he is going to run her down anyway. At long last, he agrees he will not, as if this is some great charity he is offering and not the bare minimum of human decency. When Catherine leaves, he and the other men make jokes about Catherine and her baby, horrible jokes that turn her stomach.

She begins to wonder if she really even knows the man to whom she’s married.

.

To Meg’s horror and anger, Catherine does not retreat. She meets James’s forces on Flodden Field, riding into battle with her pregnant belly. 

_ She never cared for the child’s life at all, _ Meg thinks with a twinge. Meg, who has buried four children and longs even now to be with the two she has left. 

She watches from the crest of a low hill, or tries to; there is a mist clinging to the field, and so much mud that she cannot make head nor tail of the battle. All she sees are men dying, covering the field with their bodies.

And then, to her relief, the Scottish forces are retreating. She and James can go home now, home to their boys.

But as her eyes scan the men on foot and horse, she cannot find her husband. 

It’s Alexander Stewart who finds her, looking sorrier than she’s ever seen him. “Your Grace,” he says, and stops.

“What? What is it? Where is the king?” When he doesn’t answer, she shoves his armored chest, a terrified fury building within her. To his credit, he does not stumble back, solid as he is; he only stands there, staring at his feet. “Alexander Stewart, you pig,  _ where is my husband?” _

“He’s dead,” he says softly. Meg’s knees buckle, and he reaches out at once to steady her. She pushes away his hands, her whole body trembling as she tries to accept it.

_ He’s dead. _

.

Meg weeps over James’s body while both armies look on, silent as the grave. She grieves for her husband, she grieves for her boys who will grow up fatherless, and selfishly, she grieves for herself, lost and alone in a country that loves her not. Catherine did not just take James’s life; she took Meg’s, too. 

But no; it was James who answered Anne of Brittany’s call to arms, it was James who rode south and refused to withdraw, it was James who left her a widow and their sons fatherless. 

While General Howard strips her husband of his bloodied coat to send to Henry, Meg stumbles away in the mud, nearly bent double with grief. Alexander Stewart appears in front of her, and something in her breaks; her face drops to the tartan over his shoulder, and slowly, he puts his arms around her, holding her while she weeps into his chest. 

“I still hate you,” she sobs.

“I know.”

.

The ride back to Edinburgh is exhausting, and it is only the thought of her boys that spurs Meg on. They’re waiting outside the castle when she arrives, Alexander in his nurse’s arms and Jamie waiting patiently for her, and though her dress is spattered in mud and blood, she flings herself to the ground as soon as she dismounts, gathering Jamie in her arms. 

Alexander Stewart is the first to kneel behind her. “God save the king!”

The other lairds kneel as well, their coarse voices rising up.  _ “ _ God save the king!”

“God save the king,” Meg echoes, tears streaming down her face. 

.

Those first few nights without James are long and sleepless. Meg fears for her young sons, not knowing who to trust. The lairds all respected her husband, but she knows they have no love for her, and their love for her sons may have died with their father. Alexander Stewart told her his brother John is next in line after her sons; what if he comes back, intending to take the throne for himself? What if another laird decides to move in while Albany is abroad? What if, what if,  _ what if? _

It is after one of those long and sleepless nights, when she is bone weary from grief and lack of sleep, that Alexander Stewart comes to her. They have not spoken since he held her after Flodden, and she tenses at the sight of him now. 

“Your Grace,” he says with more courtesy than he’s ever shown her save that day at Flodden. He looks awkward and uncomfortable, and if she weren’t so worn thin, she might find it amusing. “James was not just my king; he was my cousin. My blood. His sons are my blood, too. I will do whatever I can te protect them, and set yer eldest on the throne.”

She blinks at him, because whatever she was expecting from the pig, it was not that. “Thank you,” she says, too taken aback to say anything else. 

He hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his pants. “Ye should summon the lairds. Form a council to keep the peace until the king is of age. And send for my brother Albany.”

Meg’s lip curls. “Albany. Why?”

His eyes harden, as if he’s preparing for something. “He is the regent.”

Meg stands up. “ _ I _ am the regent. I am the king’s mother.”

“Aye,” he says slowly. “His mother. A woman. And an Englishwoman, at that.”

Her spine stiffens. “If the king is a minor, then his regent is traditionally his mother.”

“Traditionally, aye,” Alexander Stewart agrees curtly, “but our king died in battle fighting yer  _ blodig _ sister-in-law in a war started by yer brother.”

“And that’s my fault?”

“No,” he says, clearly losing his patience, “but the lairds will not like it.”

“Well, I don’t care what they’ll  _ like. _ ”

He mutters something in Gaelic. “You should care. Yer sons are bairns, and if the head of a powerful clan wanted to take power…”

“Like your brother Albany?”

He’s angry now and not even trying to hide it. “My brother doesnae want the throne; he wants te keep gallivanting around France.”

“Then why should I send for him?”

“Te appease the lairds! Te show them you will let Scotland be ruled by a Scottish regent!”

“But I will not!  _ I _ am my son’s regent, and to acknowledge another is to acknowledge that I am not a fit regent!”

“In the eyes of the lairds, you are not,” he thunders. He takes a deep breath. “No one is saying ye can’t be involved, but it will go better fer you if ye name my brother the regent. Once the king has been crowned and affairs have been put in order, he’ll go back te France and ye can preside over the council with his blessing.”

Meg clenches her fists “I. Don’t.  _ Need. _ His blessing. 

“God in Heaven, woman, I’m trying te help ye!”

“By supplanting me!”

“Christ Almighty, will ye  _ listen _ to me?!”

“Why should I?” she demands. “Your  _ plan _ is to give your brother the regency, and once he’s back in France, he’ll leave  _ you _ , his heir, to rule in his name!”

He’s furious now, maybe even more than she is. “I am  _ trying _ te  _ help _ , not take the bloody regency from ye! If ye’d just  _ listen _ te me--”

“Why should I?” she demands. “You and I have never gotten along, why should I believe that you suddenly want to help me?”

“Why would I betray you?” he retorts. “Why would I turn on my own kin?”

“I don’t know!” she explodes, tears pricking her eyes. She tries to blink them back, but the dam bursts and she starts crying openly. “I don’t know who to trust or what to do, I don’t know anything, James never told me anything, he never prepared me for what would happen if he died while our sons were still babes, he was so  _ stupid--” _

Alexander Stewart sighs as she dissolves in tears. “It’s alright,” he soothes, moving to put his arms about her like he had that day at Flodden. To Meg’s horror, she finds that she  _ wants _ to feel his arms about her, to feel like someone is comforting her and looking after her.

_ You must be strong if you are to be queen, _ James had told her when she’d first come to Scotland. A strong woman does not break down weeping in the arms of a man she doesn’t even know if she can trust. 

So she shoves at his chest even as she fights the instinct to let him comfort her. “Get off me!” she says shrilly, and then, for good measure, hits his chest again, and again, and again, until he grips her wrists with such effortless strength that it sends a jolt through her. 

“Alright, woman,” he murmurs.

“I’m  _ not _ a woman, I’m your  _ queen, _ and you are nothing but a  _ pig!” _ she tells him, jerking her wrists out of his grip. She rears back her hand, slapping him across the face. 

He’s quiet for a long moment, in shock. Meg is shocked, too. As often as they’ve bandied words between the two of them, she’s never once struck him. She feels ashamed of herself, her grief and exhaustion and fear getting the better of her.

“Alexander,” she says softly, the first time she’s ever called him just plain “Alexander.” “I’m...I’m sorry…” She moves forward, reaching to touch the red mark on his face, but he grabs her wrist again, his grip tighter than before, and inadvertently pulls her against his chest.

And then he does something very strange.

He lowers his shaggy head and kisses her.

It’s not a gentle kiss, either. It’s rough and demanding, and leaves Meg quite breathless. Her wrist still in his grip, she melts against him, using her other hand to steady herself against his chest. 

Alexander stiffens suddenly, pulling away with a horrified look on his face. “I’m sorry--” he says, stepping back.

But Meg, for some reason, follows him, and kisses him as rough and demanding as he’d kissed her.

She doesn’t know where it comes from, this hunger for him, but it consumes her so suddenly she can hardly stop to think about it. Dimly, she becomes aware of his hands on her and hers on him, of his fingers in her hair and her back hitting the wall, of laces coming undone and clothing pushed aside, of his hand bringing her knee to his hip…

...and then he’s inside her, and a long dormant part of Meg awakens. 

James is the only man she’s ever been with, and all their couplings were dutiful but no less gentle. 

Alexander moving inside her is neither dutiful nor gentle. It is as rough and demanding as his kiss, his hands bruising her and his teeth marking her neck and collar, and Meg…

Meg thrills at it.

She’s never been loved like this before, has never felt more than a vague discomfort at the act. But this...she  _ loves _ this, the way Alexander feels on her and in her, the way the tension in her belly is coiling as if it is about to snap. 

And then it does snap, all of a sudden, and she muffles her cry in his tartaned shoulder, clenching around him. He curses, his hips slamming hers into the wall.

They stand still for a long moment, breathing hard, arms still tight about each other.

And then sense falls on them both, and they untangle their limbs, red-faced and unable to look at one another.

“I’m sorry--”

“It’s alright--” she says vaguely, so full of so many emotions that she can only feel numb. 

“I didn’t mean--”

“It’s alright,” she says again. “Just...go. Please.”

He does, hieing his way out of the parlor and, she presumes, out of Holyrood. 

Meg slides down the wall, curling in on herself. 

_ What have I done? _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I gotta be honest y'all, I am BLOWN AWAY by the response this fic has gotten!! I genuinely thought there were three of us total, I didn't realize so many people wanted to see Meg and Alexander together!
> 
> This is still very much a work in progress, but I am writing feverishly, so expect more chapters soon!

She tries not to think about Alexander Stewart or that moment in her parlor...whatever that had been. A moment of weakness on her part, certainly, but on his...well, she doesn’t know what he was thinking, or why he did it, and she isn’t going to think about it now. She has far bigger concerns at hand.

She does not rest easy until Jamie is crowned in Stirling, in sight of all the lairds and with no objections raised. There may be others who contest his claim in time, but to have all the lairds support him now is a good sign. 

Now if she can only have their support for her regency. 

She calls Parliament while they are all gathered at Stirling. At the same time, a letter comes from Henry, effusing on his sorrow for her late husband’s death, but couching a reminder of her duty to England. 

_My duty to England,_ she thinks sourly. And what duty is that? Henry has not finished paying her dowry, and an army led by Catherine killed James. True, it was James’s own folly that led him into battle, but you would think even her tactless younger brother would remember the reason for her current predicament. 

Her one consolation is that he ends the letter by assuring her that he will support her as Queen Regent as long as she does not marry, and that as long as she is Queen Regent, there will be peace between their kingdoms. That gives her some measure of security; she knows the lairds will still be smarting after their defeat at Flodden, one that came at the hands of a pregnant woman and untrained farmers, and they will not be willing to anger the English king now that his armies are back from France. 

Yet as the morning of the Parliament meeting dawns, she finds herself overcome with nerves. What if they do not listen to her? What if Henry’s promise is not enough? What if, what if, what if?

She is playing with her sons in her rooms, hoping to calm them before the meeting, when Negasi enters. “Your Grace, Alexander Stewart wishes to speak with you.”

That bodes ill. She had hoped to avoid him outside of these Parliament meetings, but she supposes that was unrealistic. 

“Send him in,” she says, and hands the boys to their nurses. She had had some notion of bringing them with her to win the sympathy of the lairds, but the more she thinks about it, the more she begins to think it a foolish notion. 

Alexander Stewart enters right as the boys are being carried away by their nurses. He keeps his hands clasped in front of him; Meg does the same, waiting for him to speak.

He clears his throat, and it occurs to her that he’s just as unnerved as she is. “Your Grace...what happened at Holyrood--”

“Please don’t,” she says at once, her heart leaping into her throat. She knows she will not be able to look the lairds in the face and tell them she is their regent if she’s thinking about Alexander Stewart fucking her against a wall. “It...we don’t need to discuss it.”

His brows knit together. “If yer certain…”

She raises her chin. “Don’t for one second think you have any kind of effect on me, Alexander Stewart. Now, was that all you came to discuss, or is there something else?”

She’s pleased to see that he looks shocked, clearly not having expected her to be so emotionless about it. _I’m not just a pretty rose,_ she thinks with satisfaction. _I have my thorns, too._

Alexander shakes his head. “No. That was all, Your Grace.”

“Very well. You may accompany me to the throne room.” And with that, she breezes past him, heading for the meeting with Parliament. Alexander follows at a respectable distance, not saying a word. 

Most of the lairds are milling about when she enters; they bow and remove their caps, and when she settles herself on James’s throne, they take their seats. 

“Our king is dead, and our son Jamie is not yet of age to succeed him.”

“God rest the king,” the men murmur. 

“I will be regent until he’s old enough,” Meg continues. “The King of England backs me in this.”

“Your _blodig_ brother?” Alexander Stewart asks from his seat by the throne, his expression unreadable.

“I have his word that as long as I’m queen, there will be peace,” she says patiently.

“Well, he says that now,” says Alexander in that boasting, upstart way of his, “but what’s te stop him riding up here, try te take Edinburgh?

“We should throw a wappinshaw,” Lord Hume chimes in. “Te gather axes, staves, two-handed swords.”

“We do not need more weapons, the battle is over,” Meg says in the same patient tone. 

“We at least need cannons te protect the castle,” Alexander continues as if he hasn’t heard her. “If the English take that, then…”

“Too late,” Lord Hume mutters. “Look who’s on the throne.”

“I will pretend I didn’t hear that,” Meg says coldly. 

Alexander gets to his feet, turning to address the lairds. “My brother Albany must return from France. He’s next in line to the regency.”

_Traitor._

“I am regent,” she says over the murmured assent from the other men. “I am queen.”

Lord Hume also rises, ignoring her. “Is it not enough that we could not protect our king? Is it not shame enough that we were defeated by those shitey men?” He points to Meg. “Well, now we must look to a woman.”

“An Englishwoman,” Alexander murmurs...but not so quietly that the other lairds can’t hear.

She can feel her control start to slip. Her hands grip the armrests of her throne, and she hopes she gives an authoritative air rather than a frightened one. “The King of England has written to me that as long as I do not marry, I will be regent until Jamie comes of age.”

Alexander, Hume, and some of the others laugh. Only Archibald Douglas, newly made Earl of Angus, defends her. “We should not be so disrespectful of our late king’s widow--”

“Ach, listen to ye, kissing English arsepiece,” Hume rumbles. “Just like yer father.”

Angus takes a swing at Hume, and the room erupts in shouts as the lairds leap to their feet, either fighting amongst themselves or egging the others on. Meg watches in horror, unable to imagine how grown men can behave this way.

_Prickly as thistles, the lot of them._

“Enough!” she shouts, rising to her feet. “I appointed you to my council to work out how to bring peace, and look at you, fighting like children! Get out!”

Some of the lairds scatter, but more of them look to Alexander, who leans on the smaller throne as if it is his own. As if they take their orders from him, and not her.

“Get out!” she shouts again. 

He smirks at her as he straightens up, offering a mock-bow before leaving.

Only Angus remains, the kind-faced man who’d taken her to Flodden when she’d confessed her dream to him. 

“My children are not safe as long as these men will not be loyal to me,” she tells him, her heart still pounding. 

“Clan Douglas is loyal to you, Your Grace,” he says softly. “We will not let any harm come to your children.”

Meg tries to give him a smile, but she’s still too jittery. “Thank you, my lord.”

He bows, leaving her alone in the throne room.

Meg sighs, sinking onto the smaller of the two thrones. 

“Ye should be careful of Clan Douglas.”

She tenses at the familiar voice behind her, watching as Alexander Stewart comes around from behind the throne. “Why’s that? Because they don’t mind an Englishwoman acting as regent?”

Alexander smirks. “Well, ye said it yerself not long ago; let in the Douglases, and they’ll drink all the ale and get all the sheep pregnant.”

Despite herself, Meg can’t help a small smile at the memory. “I hope you don’t mind that I’m sitting in your throne, pig; only I noticed how you were acting like it was yours earlier.”

“What, this throne?” He plants his hands on the armrests, leaning in. 

Meg sucks in a breath at his proximity to her. She cannot help thinking of the last time he was this close to her, the other day at Holyrood when they’d…

Well.

“What are you doing?” she demands, trying to sound haughty.

He shrugs. “Doesnae matter; I don’t have any kind of effect on ye, do I?”

She swallows. “You are one of the most impertinent men I’ve ever met. You should be on your knees before me.”

To her horror, this only makes him grin. “Oh, on my knees, should I?” He does kneel, calloused hands running up her legs and pushing up her skirts.

Meg grips the armrests, too shocked and excited to stop him. “What are you doing?!”

“I’m on my knees,” he says innocently. “Serving my queen.” And then his head disappears under her gown.

“Alexander Stewart you-- _oh,”_ she gasps, for his tongue is on her. She bites back a whimper, her whole body buzzing as he licks and kisses and sucks her. She didn’t even know this was _possible._ She’s sure it’s some kind of sin...but oh, how good it feels to be a sinner. 

Alexander uses his tongue and his fingers on her in a way that brings the tension coiling in her belly again. She doesn’t want to show _too_ much of her pleasure lest the pig let it go to his head, but forcing herself to be still and silent is so hard; desperately, she buries her fingers in his hair, rutting against his mouth.

That sweet snapping sensation crashes over her; she bites her lip, but she cannot hold back the sounds of pleasure that spring from her throat. 

At last the clenching, shuddering sensation inside her slows to a halt, and Alexander’s tongue and fingers withdraw. He emerges from beneath her skirts with what can only be described as a shit-eating grin.

“You pig,” she whispers.

He gets to his feet, laughing, and leaves her there, completely undone.

.

It takes more than one meeting of Parliament, but eventually the lairds do agree to let Meg rule as regent alongside a Privy Council of their choosing. Additionally, the king must reside at Edinburgh Castle in sight of his council, not in the private residence of Holyrood. 

Choosing her own council had always been too much to hope for, and she can as easily reside at Edinburgh Castle as at Holyrood, which is less than an hour’s ride from the castle in any case, so she agrees to their terms. 

She should feel as if she’s won a great victory, being able to keep the regency and custody of her sons...but in truth, her victory feels hollow. The lairds still hate her, and she cannot make any decision with the Privy Council’s approval, which can take days or even weeks. 

Worse still is that Alexander Stewart has found his way onto the Privy Council in order to represent his brother Albany, meaning Meg has to deal with him constantly. He smirks and makes asides in meetings, if not outright arguing with her, and afterward when she’s riled up, he finds her and fucks her in an empty room or secluded alcove. 

She hates how much she likes when he does this. She tries to tell herself she just likes the distraction, but she knows that that’s not the only reason. She likes feeling his strong hands on her, likes feeling his tongue and his teeth and his scratchy beard on her smooth skin. She likes the way he feels inside her, the way his touch sends her over the edge. 

And he _knows_ she likes it, which is perhaps the most unbearable part of it all. The smirks he throws her, the way he touches her because he _knows_ what it does to her. 

“Pig,” she calls him whenever she can, but it only makes him smirk more. 

She wishes she could feel some remorse for it...but in truth, she doesn’t. For the first time in her life, she is thinking of herself. Not her family, not England, not her husband or her sons. She’s doing this for no other reason than because she likes it, and that is a foreign feeling these days. When was the last time she did anything just because she liked it? She’d been twelve when her father signed her away to Scotland, and just shy of her fourteenth birthday when she’d ridden north to take her place as Queen of Scotland. From then on, her life had been a series of neverending obligations, royal progresses and having babies, playing the gracious hostess but not overstepping her place as an Englishwoman, brokering peace between the clans while being mindful of their enmity, trying to rule this strange country that she knows nothing about. And now, widowed at the age of twenty-three with a son too young to rule and a Privy Council that likes her not, she is expected to pick up the pieces left by James and try to carry on. 

So no, she does not feel any remorse for fucking Alexander Stewart, even if he is a pig.

.

Christmas draws upon them, and though it should be a merry occasion, Meg finds herself sadder and more weighed down than ever. This is the first Christmas in ten years she’ll be celebrating without her husband. It feels strange, that life should carry on without him...but carry on it does.

Meg makes all the arrangements, wanting Edinburgh Castle to look cheerful and resplendent. The clans have been fighting again, and she hopes a merry castle will soothe some of the tension. 

“I dinnae think some green leaves are gonna make the clans stop fighting,” Alexander tells her after he kisses her beneath some mistletoe--she’s fairly certain that _where_ he kissed her is against the rules, but she isn’t complaining. 

“Maybe not,” she allows, “but at least they’ll all get along under one roof for a little bit.”

“Fer a little bit, aye,” he agrees. “And then this chieftain will insult that one and it will start all over again. That’s the way of it. No one can fully unite the clans. They’ve tried time and again.”

She lifts her chin in defiance. “Well maybe they haven’t tried hard enough.”

He hoots with laughter. “And yer English self is gonna unite them, is that the way of it?”

Her defiance leaves her. “I suppose not.” She wanders to the window, watching the snow blanket the city. “What was it James said? ‘The clans united as neither Robert the Bruce nor William Wallace could’ve hoped for, and all because of their contempt for the English.’”

He heaves a sigh, coming to stand beside her. “They don’t hate _you,_ just…”

“The English? Of whom my brother is king?”

He doesn’t have a response to that.

It’s her turn to heave a sigh, resting her cheek against the cold stone. “I’ve lived here for ten years, almost half my life, I was married to one Scottish king and now my son is the next king...but everyone still thinks of me as some...meddling Englishwoman.”

He considers this. “The MacLeods are coming today?”

She nods. “Yes. Do you know them?”

“Only in passing. Most of their lot speak Gaelic. When ye see ‘em, ye should say _Pog mo thon.”_

_“Pog mo thon?”_ she repeats. “What does that mean?”

“It’s an old Gaelic greeting. It’s hard te translate, but it means something like, ‘welcome to my home.’ They’ll love it.”

Marginally cheered by the gesture, Meg leaves to freshen up and then head down to greet the MacLeods, who were spotted on the road to Edinburgh. She takes her place on the throne with Jamie in her lap, smiling warmly as the MacLeods come trooping in, sniffling and dripping snow. 

_“Pog mo thon!”_ she calls.

The MacLeods look at her in shock, and the entire room falls silent, everyone staring at her. 

She turns to look at Alexander, whose face is red and shoulders shaking as he tries not to laugh aloud. 

“Alexander Stewart, you pig!”

The hall rings with laughter as everyone realizes what happened. Meg flushes, unable to look the MacLeods in the eyes. 

“I’m so sorry, my lords--”

“I must say, I’ve never had such a welcome before!” Lord MacLeod chortles, bowing before her and Jamie. 

She leans forward. “What _did_ I say?”

The old man flushes, biting back a smile. “Ach...ye told me to, erm…” 

Her stepson, James, whispers in her ear, “Ye told him te kiss yer arse.”

Meg hands Jamie to his brother. “Please excuse me, my lord; I have to murder Lord Stewart.”

The lairds roar with laughter.

“Well,” Alexander protests, already backing up, “they’re all getting along, aren’t they?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, I'm very bitter about the most recent episode. Have some Christmas smut.

Christmastide is a happier occasion than Meg expected. The lairds are all getting along for the most part, and even the feuding MacLeods and Macdonalds of Sleat have managed a cold deference to one another. James’s elder daughters, two lovely girls of eighteen and sixteen named Catherine and Margaret, have come to visit with their husbands, and their siblings’ happiness at seeing them is palpable. Henry and Catherine have sent Meg silver plate for a Christmas gift, as well as their heartfelt wishes that she find peace and happiness this season. Meg, knowing that the child Catherine carried at Flodden did not live, sends her own heartfelt wishes.

Her babes had always received obligatory gifts in Christmases past, but now that Jamie is the king, he is swamped with presents. Shoes, clothes, silver rattles and figures of the saints, lands and titles, even a horse, which he will not grow into for some years. Her little Alexander, being the heir apparent, receives his fair share of gifts too, though he and his brother are both too young to understand. Meg understands, however, and she is overwhelmed with gratitude. 

Her own gifts are telling. Many of them are standard gifts of silver and gold plate, impersonal gifts that the lairds send more out of obligation than partiality. The Douglases, however, send her velvet and lambswool, clearly trying to curry favor. The Duke of Albany sends casks of red wine from France, a gesture of goodwill, and Angus writes her an ode. It isn’t very good, truth be told, but it touches Meg to be thought of. 

She doesn’t know why, but she mentions it to Alexander. It isn’t that she expects him to care; in fact, she knows as soon as the words are out of her mouth that he’ll laugh and call Angus a little girl. But she’s so  _ lonely _ these days, and even though she and Alexander only interact to argue with each other in public and fuck in private, he’s the closest thing she has to a friend right now.

Alexander doesn’t laugh or call Angus a little girl, though; instead, he scowls, and asks, “What’s that wee shitey man writing you an ode fer?”

“People write odes,” she defends. 

“Wee shitey men, maybe.”

“Lots of people have written odes for me,” she retorts, and then realizes how bratty she sounds. “People write odes for their queens,” she amends in a more diplomatic voice. 

“Wee shitey men,” he says again, undeterred. “And Angus is a wee shitey man.”

“Just because he’s  _ different _ \--”

“Aye, he’s  _ different. _ He’s a--”

“Wee shitey man,” she finishes, rolling her eyes. “You’ve said that.”

“What’re you tellin’ me this for, anyway?”

“I don’t know,” she says honestly, feeling a bit foolish now. “I suppose I just don’t have anyone else to tell.” She starts to move away, but Alexander grabs her arm, stopping her.

“Careful with him,” he says seriously. 

“Why?” she asks, laughing and trying to hide the pounding of her heart as he tightens his grip.

“The Douglases are snakes, and underneath those flowery words of his is a knife.”

“I’m fairly certain Angus doesn’t know how to use a knife,” she says wryly. “And even if he did, why would he use it on me? I thought the Douglases liked the English.”

“Just...be careful with him,” Alexander says with no small amount of reluctance. 

Meg tilts her head. “Are you... _ jealous?” _

“Jealous of Angus?” he snorts, but his grip only gets tighter, if possible. “That little girl?”

“Is he a wee shitey man or a little girl?”

“He can be both,” Alexander says unhappily. 

“Well he--”

Alexander moves so swiftly it takes her breath away; one hand cradles the back of her head, cushioning her when he uses the hand at her arm to back her roughly against the wall. She gapes at him, unable to believe both how easily he’d done that and how much it excited her. 

“I don’t want,” he growls, face close to hers, “te talk about Angus anymore.”

He’s angry, and Meg feels a thrill. She feels more than that when she cups her hand against him. They’d just finished moments ago, and already he’s hard again.

“So soon?” she whispers, unlacing him. 

The hand behind her head slides down, wrapping her hair around his fist and pulling her head back until she gasps, her heart pounding. 

“Stop talking,” he orders, scraping his teeth against her neck. Meg groans, drunk off his mouth at her throat and his hand pulling up her skirts. His fingers skim over her stocking and the bare skin of her thigh before they find her center, drawing a small hiccup out of her. She’s breathing hard now, and he has to silence her moan with a kiss when he pushes inside her. 

Margaret Tudor has been a daughter, granddaughter, sister, wife, and mother to kings and queens, she is the first daughter and oldest living child of the union that ended the Wars of the Roses, her marriage to the Scottish king ended two hundred years of bloodshed between England and Scotland.

So why does she like it so much when Alexander fucks her in a corner of a servants’ staircase like some common tavern wench? Why does she like the way he pulls her hair and bites her neck and tells her to be quiet in that low growl? 

Maybe because it’s the first time no one has tried to treat her like a delicate rose. She’s so used to being patted and placated, but Alexander? Alexander knows what she can give and what she can take, and he doesn’t shy away. She likes that about him. She likes that he knows she can hold her own. As much as he mocks her, as often as he calls her “woman” like it’s a bad thing, he sees her, maybe not as an equal, but as someone who’s capable. When was the last time anyone thought Meg was capable of anything other than bearing children?

.

The Christmas celebrations come to an end on Twelfth Night, on a day full of dancing, feasting, entertainment, and most importantly, drinking. When it comes time to give her final toast, Alexander tells her that she should say,  _ “Ith mo chac,” _ which he claims is the Gaelic for “Happy Twelfth Night.”

“I don’t trust you,” she says bluntly. “Last time you told me to say something in Gaelic, I said something not very queen-like.”

“Ask anyone,” he insists. 

She narrows her eyes, trying to decide whether or not he’s bluffing. She turns to her stepdaughter Cat on her other side. “Cat, how do you say, ‘Happy Twelfth Night’ in Gaelic?”

_ “Ith mo chac,” _ the younger woman says without pause.

Deciding this is good enough, Meg gets to her feet, raising her goblet in a toast. The other nobles also rise to their feet, raising their own glasses.

_ “Ith mo chac!” _ she toasts.

She doesn’t even have to see the scandalized faces of some of the nobles to know that she’s once again been given a rude phrase; she hears Alexander and Cat wheezing as they try to hold back their laughter. 

“Alexander Stewart, you pig!” she shouts, whirling on him.

At least half the lairds roar with laughter.

“And you, Cat!” she says, whirling on the girl.

“I’m sorry!” Cat apologizes through her laughter, trying and failing to look contrite. “It was just so funny…”

“What did I say?”

Catherine cups her hand around Meg’s ear to whisper, “It means  _ eat my shit.” _

Meg can’t find it in herself to be offended; instead, she laughs with the nobles, raising her goblet once more in a toast. “Why not,  _ ith mo chac! _ ”

“ _ Ith mo chac! _ ” the nobles shout, downing their drinks and laughing. 

She leans in towards Alexander. “You are going to pay for that later.”

He just gives her a cheeky grin. “Promise?”

.

In the morning, the nobles begin to trickle out of Edinburgh one at a time, a slow exodus that lasts for almost a week. Meg is exhausted by the time the last guest leaves, and relieved to have the castle back to just the usual residents. 

She is relieved, too, to be able to spend more time with her sons. They’re still babes, with Jamie not yet two and Alexander not yet one, but it seems to her that they grow so much every day. Jamie is the oldest child she’s ever had; her first James had died just days after his first birthday and Arthur had died at nine months old, and neither of her girls lasted a day. To watch Jamie reach two years old in just a few months will be special.

She just hopes it won’t be the last birthday he celebrates.

She’s mindful of the fact that children can die at any age, as she knows all too well. She lost three siblings in the nursery, and even Arthur had died at fifteen. But maybe things will be different now. Maybe Jamie and Alexander will be the children who live.

It does sadden her a little, to think that they will be her only children. She can always remarry when Jamie reaches his majority and is no longer in need of a regent, but the chances of conceiving by then will be slim, and the chances of carrying a healthy child to term will be even slimmer. So no, it looks like it’s just going to be her two boys, so long as God does not take them from her, too.

She does find herself turning to God more and more these days, praying fervently for him to watch over her sons and to help guide her hand. 

She’s heading into the chapel royal one blustery February day when she finds another person already sitting at one of the pews, head bowed in prayer. Angus, the man who has always been so kind to her. 

She’s debating whether she wants to leave him alone or pray unobtrusively in a corner when he looks up, leaping to his feet. “My queen!” He wipes his eyes, and she can see that he’s been crying. “Forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” she assures him, feeling guilty. “I disturbed you.”

“Not at all,” he hastens to assure her. “I can go--”

“No, you were here first--”

“I wasn’t praying, really,” he insists. “Just...remembering my father, I suppose.”

Meg gives him a sympathetic smile. “He was a kind man. My son was fascinated with his beard.” She takes a seat in the pew beside him.

“It was a fine beard,” Angus says shyly.

“It was.” 

They sit in silence for a long moment. A companionable silence, Meg thinks.

“Have you had any more dreams?” he asks at last.

“None yet, thank God,” she says, crossing herself.

“In my dreams, I’m still on the battlefield,” he tells her. “I’d not killed a man before Flodden. I came home with his blood on my face like some hero. I keep waking up with the smell of it. There is nothing more inglorious than that glory that is gained by war.”

Meg furrows her brow, knowing the words from somewhere. “Is that...Thomas More?”

Angus’s eyes widen. “You know his work?”

“Of course,” she laughs. “He is in the English court, and a favorite of my brother’s.”

“Ah, of course,” Angus says sheepishly. “Everything good comes out of England.” 

Meg doesn’t know what to say to that. She looks down, fiddling with her rosary. 

“‘Love rules without rules,’” Angus continues. “That’s my favorite line of his.”

“Love rules without rules,” Meg echoes, a small smile coming to her face.

“I should leave you to your prayer,” Angus says, getting up and heading for the door.

“My prayer is always the same,” she calls after him. When he turns to look at her, curious, she says helplessly, “Show me how to help my people. I struggle to hear the answer.”

Angus considers this. “If I may...I have always found comfort in giving bread to the poor. To see their simple smiles and to give them respite from hunger is enough to silence my own demons. For a moment, at least.” 

He bows his head and takes his leave, and Meg is alone with her thoughts once more. 

.

In fact, Meg finds herself alone quite often. 

It isn’t that she isn’t constantly surrounded by people, because she is...but those people are the Privy Council or her ladies-in-waiting, who are wives, sisters, and daughters to the men on the Privy Council, or the children. They aren’t people that she can truly talk to, not as confidantes. 

Which is why she sends for Angus, the only person she feels can understand her...and maybe in time, can help her understand others.

“I want you to show me what it is like,” she tells him. “Take me to my people, Angus. Let us do charity together.”

.

They wait for the cover of night, when there will be less of a to-do over the queen leaving the castle. Angus takes Meg out through the south gate, where beggars line the walkway and huddle close to the braziers. She and Angus hand them pieces of bread, and Meg chokes up when she sees the gratitude in those tired eyes. 

_ These are my people, _ she thinks guiltily. Up in her ivory tower, it’s so easy for her to forget about the people down below, even when they’re right at her doorstep. She gives alms and donates the kitchen scraps because it’s second nature, but when was the last time she actually spoke to one of the common people? Not a noble, not a servant in the castle, but a real salt of the earth person?

She has been remiss in some of her queenly duties, and she is grateful to Angus for reminding her. 

They end the night in the back room of a tavern, their table cordoned off from the rest of the patrons by a thin curtain. Only then does Meg lower her hood, knowing she will not be recognized by anyone other than the barkeep. 

“I know this is not as fine as what you can get from the castle,” Angus apologizes, but Meg shakes her head.

“No, I like it. I’ve never been in a tavern before. It’s...exciting.”

Angus laughs. “Not a word I ever thought would be associated with a tavern. They can be, when there’s fighting or singing, but one tavern seems much like another.”

“Yes, but if you’ve never been to one before…” Meg sips her ale, which is admittedly stronger than what she’s used to, but she doesn’t mind it. She feels daring and adventurous, sitting in a tavern after spending a night out on the streets she’s only ever ridden through on a palfrey, and always with attendants. To walk with only Angus by her side and to no fanfare is truly something. When was the last time she went anywhere without people waving and calling out to her? 

It was always the life her parents and her husband wanted for her, to be raised up and hailed like the princess and later queen that she is. It’s the life she wants for her sons, too. But just now, she likes being a normal person in a tavern. 

She and Angus talk for a little while longer, mostly about England, with which he is fascinated. Meg is so used to Scots hating English that she finds his questions refreshing. She tells him everything he wants to know, reminiscing on her past with a fond smile she is rarely allowed. For the first time in a very long time, she doesn’t feel quite so lonely. For the first time in a very long time, she feels like she has a friend. 

.

She’s in her apartments making arrangements for Jamie’s second birthday celebration when her maid enters.

“Your Grace, Alexander Stewart is here te speak with ye.”

Meg raises her eyebrow. Alexander never comes to speak with her. Last time he had…

Well.

“Send him in.”

The maid lets him into the room, closing the door behind him. He looks uncomfortable.

_ That makes two of us. _

“Lord Stewart,” she says carefully. “Will you sit?”

He mumbles a thanks, taking the seat across from her. She looks at him expectantly. “Well? What can I do for you?” She almost winces at the turn of phrase. 

Luckily, Alexander seems not to notice. “Heard ye had a night out on the town last night.”

“I would hardly call giving bread to the poor ‘a night on the town’,” she says wryly, turning back to the list she’s been writing. “How did you hear about that, anyway?”

“People talk. Heard ye went into a tavern with Angus. Alone.”

She lifts her eyes to look at him again. She can’t read the look on his face, but she knows this doesn’t bode well. “We went in for a drink, yes.”

“ _ Just _ a drink?”

She lowers her quill, grinning in disbelief. “You think I went to a tavern to fuck  _ Angus?” _

He shifts uncomfortably. “Well, ye were alone, he’s clearly sweet on ye…”

“We were alone because I didn’t want a crowd, and I doubt he’s  _ sweet on me, _ he’s just...kind.”

Alexander snorts. “And why d’ye think he’s  _ kind _ to ye?”

“He’s a kind  _ person. _ I know that’s a foreign concept to you…”

“He’s only kind te you.”

“Well, some people are kind to their queens. Another foreign concept to you, I’m sure.”

He rolls his eyes. “Woman, he’s kind te you because he  _ wants _ something from ye. Ye think he really cares about  _ feeding the poor?” _

“Yes?”

Alexander pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just...don’t go off alone with him again, alright?”

“Why? Are you afraid for my virtue?” she asks with mock-concern. “Do you think he might seduce me?”

He snorts. “As if he’s man enough.”

Something about the way he says it has Meg leaning back, gaping in amusement. “Are you... _ jealous?” _

“Of a Douglas?” he snaps. “‘Course not.”

“Then why do you care so much?”

“He has a mistress, ye know,” he tells her, ignoring her question. “Jane Stewart. Ask anyone.”

“Good for him.” She picks up her quill, returning to her list.

Alexander watches her, uncertain. “Yer really not fucking him?”

She looks up, annoyed. “I’m really not. We went to feed the poor and then stopped in a tavern because I was thirsty, that’s  _ it.” _

“Oh,” he says, and then, “good.”

She throws down her quill again. “Do you really expect me to believe you’re not jealous?”

“D’ye want me te be jealous?” he counters.

“You’re not answering my question.”

“You’re not answering mine.”

She lets out a frustrated laugh. “You are unbelievable. Fine, you’re not jealous, you’re just extremely chivalrous, is that it?”

“I just don’t think ye want te make the mistake of getting close te Angus,” he says with an uncharacteristic gentleness. “I know ye don’t listen te me, but I’m saying this as...a friend.”

She raises an eyebrow. “We’re not friends.”

He rolls his eyes. “Fine, don’t listen te me.” He gets up, heading for the door. 

Impulsively, Meg says, “Yes.”

He turns to look at her, confused. “Yes, what?”

“The answer to your question.” Her heart is pounding for some reason. Maybe it’s because they’ve never really talked about this thing between them, whatever it is. 

Alexander looks as if he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Ye  _ want _ me te be jealous?”

“Well,” she says with a nonchalance she doesn’t feel, pretending to write something on her list, “last time you were jealous of Angus I quite liked the outcome is all.”

There’s a long pause where she wonders if perhaps she misstepped, but then Alexander is striding towards her, and before she can even react, he’s wrapped her hair around one hand, tugging her head back so she has to look up at him. She gasps, her heart pounding even harder as she looks up into his dark eyes. 

“Ye liked that, did ye?” he asks in a voice like soft thunder.

She couldn’t nod even if he didn’t have her hair in his grip, so stunned is she. He doesn’t wait for an answer, though; he leans in, his lips against her ear as he murmurs, “Angus can write ye odes, but he can’t make ye sing like I can.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge shout-out to Lauren for beta-ing this while she was sick!! You're a true queen <3
> 
> And shout-out to y'all for still reading this lmao

Meg does not often venture from Edinburgh Castle; she is loath to be parted from her sons, who the Privy Council require to live at the castle, and there is always so much to keep her occupied in any case. Today, however, the spring sunshine has melted the snow on the ground, and Meg decides to go on a ride with her stepson, James. The young Earl of Moray is only fourteen, but already he is the spitting image of his father. Seeing him after Flodden used to fill Meg with such a bittersweet feeling, but as time has passed and her stepson has come to rely on her more and more in the absence of his father, the feeling has become more sweet than bitter. 

James’s mother, Janet, was the king’s favorite mistress, hence why their son was given an earldom. Currently, Janet resides at the earl’s Darnaway Castle with her two daughters by James, all of them well cared for by the late king’s estate. Even if he had not provided for them, Meg would see to it. She likes all of James’s children, even the ones born after their marriage, and she bears his mistresses no ill will. She spent most of her childbearing years pregnant or recovering from being pregnant, and James had to take his pleasure  _ somewhere. _ The mistresses that Meg has met have all been kind and respectful, if not downright grateful that she has allowed their children to be raised at court. 

Young James, playing the gallant, helps Meg onto her horse before he vaults up into his saddle. The pair set off out the postern gate, two guards following at a respectful distance.

“James,” she says after they have ridden some distance, “your mother was...acquainted with the late Earl of Angus, wasn’t she?”

“She was his mistress, you mean,” James says frankly. “My older sister Mary is his daughter.”

“Do you know the Douglases very well?”

“No,” he admits. “My father didn’t like them; it’s said he stole my mother from Angus to shame him.”

“That sounds like your father,” Meg says wryly. 

James glances at her. “Is it true the new earl of Angus is courting you?”

Meg can’t help but laugh. “Of course he’s not. Why does everyone think that?”

He looks uncomfortable. “Well...I heard some gossip, is all. That you and he went to an inn in the city alone.”

“It was a tavern, not an inn, and I was thirsty after spending all night giving bread to the poor.”

James looks a little relieved. “Oh. Well. Good. I was afraid that you...well.”

“Why? Is there something I should know about Angus?”

“It’s just gossip,” he says uncomfortably.

She draws her horse closer to his. “I would like to hear it. I trust you more than most, James.”

Emboldened by her confidence, he says, “Well...he lost his first wife about a year ago.”

That surprises Meg. “I did not know he was married.”

James nods. “Margaret Hepburn, the daughter of the Earl of Bothwell. He claimed he was passionately in love with her, but...well, she was thirteen when they wed, which they did in secret. Her father was furious, but she was his youngest daughter and Douglas stood to inherit the earldom of Angus, so he allowed it and paid her dowry. Angus put her up in one of his family’s older estates, and then he abandoned her to live with his mistress, Jane Stewart. Lady Margaret was often ill, which I have heard is because the house was in need of repairs that Angus would not pay for, nor would he pay for a physician. The servants were also sparse, and many left when Angus would not pay them. She died last year in near penury, not yet seventeen, and he still lives with his mistress Jane Stewart.”

Meg’s stomach turns. She cannot imagine her new friend treating his own wife so cruelly. “And this is...well known?”

“Not well known,” James confides. “I heard much of it from my sister Mary, who is the earl’s aunt and still close to some of the Douglases. They are all trying to keep it quiet, you know, so as not to upset her family, but the gossip has made its way to the other clans. The Douglases are not well-liked, and the Earl of Bothwell was.” He glances at his stepmother. “It’s just gossip…”

“But some gossip has a grain of truth to it,” she finishes. “It’s alright, James. I appreciate you telling me. This...bears thinking on.”

“I like you very much, Your Grace,” he says frankly. “You’re like a second mother to me. I would hate for you to...to put your trust in someone who does not deserve it.”

She smiles. “You are a sweet boy, James. You are like a son to me also.”

His face clears. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You know you can call me Meg when it’s just the two of us,” she laughs. “You have gotten so proper!”

“A lord is always mindful of his courtesy,” he tells her so mechanically that she knows someone drilled it into his head. 

“You are very mindful, but you must call me Meg when we’re together. I insist upon it.”

“Then, Meg, shall we race back to the castle?”

“I don’t know,” she says, pretending to think about it...and then digs her spurs into her horse, urging the mare into a fast gallop.

“You cheated!” James shouts, urging his own horse into a gallop.

She laughs, leaning forward to outrun him. They race back to the castle, the guards thundering to keep up. They’re drawing on the castle when they see a crowd gathered outside, and Meg reins to a halt. 

“What’s going on?” she asks.

“Wait here, Your Grace, and I’ll find the cause of this,” one of her guards says, riding ahead. She and James wait behind with the second guard. The crowd looks restless, shouting at the gate.

“Looks like a riot,” the second guard observes. 

“What are they rioting about?” 

“Not enough bread, too many taxes. The usual things peasants riot about.”

This troubles Meg. “I did not know the unrest in the city was so great.”

“It happens from time to time,” the guard says gently. “It was a hard winter, and the spring has not yet yielded fruit.”

Several armed guards push their way through the crowd, making way so Meg and James can get through. Angry men and women scream and point at her, some trying to reach out to grab her. One man with a long arm is successfully in tearing the hem of her dress; Meg is too stunned to cry out, and a moment later the guards have pushed the man back, and her horse bucks eagerly through the gate.

“Your Grace!” Gavin Douglas calls, running out to greet her. “Are ye alright?”

She glances back to make sure James is unharmed before turning back to Gavin, nodding. “We’re alright. What’s happening?”

“Just some malcontents, Your Grace,” he smoothes, trotting along beside her horse as they make for the stables. “Nothing te worry about.”

“There’s an angry mob right outside the gate, of course I’m worried.”

Hume’s big voice fills the walkway. “They don’t like an Englishwoman ruling Scotland.”

The other men on the walkway suck in their breaths, watching as Hume stares down the queen.

Meg feels her color rising. Hume has never liked her and has never been quiet about it, but to accuse her of being the cause for the mob outside…

But  _ is _ she the cause? Do the people of Edinburgh hate her as much as Hume does? Just because she’s an Englishwoman by birth?

“Your Grace,” James says, drawing up beside her, “we should get inside.”

She nods curtly, urging her horse past Hume. Her legs are shaking as she dismounts, but she will herself to walk up to her apartments. Only when the door is closed does she allow herself to sink onto her bed, her whole body trembling. 

.

The mob at the gate does not dissipate. If anything, they only get bigger and louder as the day goes on. 

Meg tries to keep the children as far from the noise as possible, but it’s impossible as they get more fired up. James and Janet, her twelve-year-old stepdaughter, are thankfully the only two of James’s illegitimate children at Edinburgh Castle; the others are at Holyrood, where Meg has been assured they will be kept safe. 

Not that it’s the children the mob is after. Meg cannot stop thinking about what Hume said, and though no one will say anything directly, their silence on the matter speaks volumes.

_ The people hate me. _

How can she have failed so badly at being queen? She has worked so closely with the Privy Council, has tried to accommodate the lairds wherever possible.

_ But I am an Englishwoman and sister to the English king. My sister-in-law killed my husband, and they think it was my fault.  _

The rioting goes into the night, fuelled by men and women who drank overmuch at the taverns and alehouses and have made their way to the mob in front of the gate. Several times, the castle guards try to push back the mob and make them disperse, but they will not, and some of them manage to slip in past the guards. They never make it far, but it only seems to embolden them.

Meg keeps the children with her in her room, at first trying valiantly to distract them; before long, however, they are all gathered at the window, watching the guards rush past beneath them. James keeps his sword with him, a blade that is more ceremonial than anything, but it makes him feel better to keep it at his side. 

The door bursts open suddenly, and Meg and Janet scream at the intrusion. Jamie and little Alexander start crying even harder than they were before, terrified of their mother and sisters’ terror.

But it’s only Alexander Stewart, sword in hand. “They’ve gotten through the gate,” he says shortly. “We have te get ye somewhere safe.”

Meg nods, bouncing little Alexander in as reassuring a manner as she can. “Janet, take Jamie.”

The twelve-year-old picks up her little brother, assuring him it will be alright. Alexander leads them down the servants’ stairs, James bringing up the rear with his own sword raised. They encounter screaming maids and shouting grooms, all of them running frantically down corridors and up and down stairs. The babes are wailing, and Meg and Janet are too afraid themselves to calm them. 

They’ve cleared the landing below the main floor when they hear a crash and tumult of voices above, the ceiling rumbling as dozens of feet run upon it. 

“This way!” Alexander barks, one hand on Meg’s arm as he leads them down the rest of the stairs and down a corridor in the kitchens. The crowd is hot on their heels, so he shouts, “Third door to the left is a storeroom, go!”

She runs without question, glancing back only once to see her stepchildren close behind her, Janet clutching Jamie and James following Alexander’s lead, backing up with their swords raised. Meg yanks open the third door on the left, shouting for Janet and James to follow. Alexander is the last to spill inside, having broken away from the mob; he and James slam and lock the door before pulling sacks of grain and flour off the shelves and heaving them in a wall against the door. Meg and Janet stand pressed against the far wall, trying desperately to shush the babes lest anyone hear them and come looking. 

But Jamie and Alexander are not to be soothed, too afraid of the shouting voices down the corridor. Meg can hardly blame them; she knows they would calm if they saw that she was calm, but how can she possibly feign calm at a time like this? There’s an angry mob  _ inside _ the castle, and she and her children were moments away from being torn apart by them.

But standing here panicking will not help. She bounces Alexander as she walks up and down the small length of the room, shushing him as if this is no different from any other night. The door and the sacks of flour will shield them, and failing that, Alexander Stewart will protect them. 

“Look,” she says, pointing at a trickle of water in the corner. Little Alexander’s cries stutter as the trickle captures his attention. “What is that?” she asks softly. “What do you think that is?”

The babe calms, fascinated by the trickle of water. Seeing this, Janet brings over Jamie, and he, too, falls silent as he watches the trickle of water.

The storeroom is silent but for the distant noises of the mob, and everyone breathes a sigh of relief. Meg sets down little Alexander, leaving her boys with Janet while she goes to check on James and the older Alexander. 

“We’ll be alright fer now,” Alexander says before she can even ask. “They passed us already; if they were going te break in here, they would’ve.”

“What if they  _ do _ try?” she asks quietly.

“The flour will hold up.” He reaches over to ruffle James’s hair. “And this one’s right dangerous with a sword.”

James beams at the praise. 

“They won’t get in,” Alexander says, seeing the unconvinced look on Meg’s face. “Even if they managed te get through the door  _ and _ the flour, they’re not getting through my sword.” His voice is gentle, but there’s a fierceness to it when he makes this last promise. 

She nods, believing him. She only hopes it doesn’t come to that.

.

They wait in the storeroom for hours. Meg keeps the children entertained to the best of her ability, and after a while, their heads start to nod. Meg sits against the wall, holding little Alexander in her arms while Janet leans against the wall beside her, Jamie in her lap and her head drooping onto Meg’s shoulder. James sits beside his siblings, his sword in his hand, but after a time he, too, begins to nod off.

It’s quiet in the storeroom, save for the sounds of breathing. Meg can still hear the distant sounds of the mob, but they don’t sound so close as they once did. 

“Shouldn’t be much longer.” Alexander sits on her other side, leaning back against the wall. “Are ye alright?”

It touches her, oddly, to hear him ask that. She can’t remember the last time anyone asked her if she was alright, let alone the pig. “I’m alive and my children are safe. Of course I’m alright.” She hesitates. “Thank you. For...coming for us.”

“I told ye I’d do whatever I can te protect them,” he murmurs.

She bites her lip, trying not to remember what  _ else _ he’d said that day. “So you did.” She hesitates, wanting to ask but afraid of the answer she might receive. “This...riot...Hume said it was because they...hate me.”

“They don’t hate  _ you,” _ he sighs. “They hate the English trying te rule us.”

“But the English  _ aren’t _ trying to rule.”

He gives her a wry look. “Yer brother is the King of England. Yer the Queen Regent of Scotland.”

“But he’s not ruling.”

He takes a deep breath. “But he does. He said he supported you as the regent, meaning if we named another regent, we’d find ourselves at war with England again.”

“No,” she starts to protest, and then realizes that he’s right. Henry would have defended her place as regent if she’d been denied, and that defense might have come at the expense of war. 

_ They hate me because if they didn’t agree to me being regent, they’d find themselves at war with England again. _

She feels stupid. She should have realized sooner. It wasn’t about Henry defending her right to rule in her son’s name, it was about him forcing the Scots to bow to an English queen. 

“My marriage to James was supposed to bring peace,” she murmurs. “But it seems it’s only brought discord.”

“Nah, it was worse before.”

She glances at Alexander. “Really?”

He nods, scratching his chin. “Aye. There was always fighting, between Scotland and England, between the clans. The English were the problem, because yer father and grandfather and all the  _ blodig _ kings before them would favor certain clans, y’see, playing the same game yer brother is playing now.”

She feels like she’s watching threads on a loom weaving together, finally forming a pattern. “And that’s why the Stewarts hate the Douglases.”

“One of the reasons. The other is ye can’t trust ‘em around sheep.”

She grins. “Or ale.”

“Well, ye can’t trust most Scotsmen around ale, te be quite honest.”

She laughs. “You said it, not me.”

“But ye can’t trust the Douglases in general.”

Meg thinks back to what James told her earlier today. “No, I suppose you can’t.”

Alexander glances at her. “Angus?”

She takes a deep breath. “Did you know about his wife?”

He hesitates, which is all the answer Meg needs.

“Do you think it’s true?” she asks uncertainly. “That he just...left her to die?”

He hesitates again. “I don’t think...he  _ meant _ te do it. I think he had what he wanted and left his mess fer someone else te clean up. That’s his way.” When he sees the despair on Meg’s face, he adds awkwardly, “Lots of...women...get taken in by him…”

“It wasn’t like that,” she insists. “I hate admitting you’re right about anything, but he  _ does _ look like a little girl. I just...wanted a friend.”

“Ye have plenty of friends who aren’t Angus.”

“No I don’t,” she scoffs. “I am...so lonely, all the time. Even when I’m surrounded by people.” She doesn’t know why she’s admitting this to him, of all people...but she supposes if there was ever a time to share things, it’s when you’re hunkered down in a storeroom waiting out an angry mob. 

Alexander’s voice is soft. “Because of James?”

She shakes her head. “Even before James. He was the closest thing I had to a friend, but I don’t think I’ve had a  _ true _ friend since I left England.”

“You’ve been unhappy this whole time?”

She’s quiet for a moment, thinking. “There was a time at the beginning when I was happy. When I first came to Scotland. James was so kind to me, and his children reminded me of my siblings. We went on a royal progress and I thought this place was so beautiful. I was so happy to be queen to this country.” Her smile fades. “But then I became old enough to bear children, and that was all I ever did after that. And then they kept dying, and…” She leans her head back against the wall, closing her eyes. “It’s been a long seven years.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and she wonders if she’s said too much, but then she hears his voice, soft and almost sad. “I never realized.”

“Realized what?”

“The toll it took on you.”

She opens her eyes to see Alexander watching her with a somber look on his face. It feels like, for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, someone is truly seeing her. Not looking at her, not looking through her, not seeing what they want to see...they are seeing  _ her. _

It both warms her and unnerves her, so she clears her throat and says, “That’s enough self-pity for tonight.”

“You should get some sleep,” he says gently. “We might be here a while.”

“Thought you said it shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Eh...I just said that so ye wouldn’t worry.”

“But now you don’t care if I worry?”

“Just go to sleep, woman.”

She smiles and settles back against the wall, closing her eyes.

.

She wakes suddenly hours later, jolting at a sharp call from the other side of the door. She realizes that her head is on Alexander’s shoulder, and a blanket is draped over her and the children.

Not a blanket.

A tartan.

Alexander pushes himself to his feet, gripping his sword. “That’s Hume,” he says, pressing his ear to the door.

“The mob…?”

“I don’t hear ‘em.” Alexander listens for another moment before calling through the door. “Hume!”

“Stewart?” comes the reply, not too far away. Meg can hear his footsteps in the hall as the children begin to stir.

“Is the mob gone?” Alexander asks through the door.

“Aye, they’re gone. We can’t find the queen nor the bairns.”

“They’re here.” Alexander jerks his head at James. “Help me with these, lad.”

James springs to his feet, helping Alexander move the sacks of flour and grain. Meg and Janet rise slowly, backs and legs aching from sleeping on the cold hard stone, and try to keep the babes from fussing as Alexander and James clear the door. Finally, they pull it open, revealing Hume and a few other men. 

“Your Grace!” 

There is much exclaiming over her and Jamie, who looks on the proceedings with bleary-eyed astonishment.

“We’re alright,” she assures the small crowd, glancing at Alexander. “We were well protected.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, please know I would die for you.

The castle is set to rights, the ringleaders of the riot arrested, and things go back to normal in almost every aspect of Meg’s life, save one.

She and Alexander don’t argue at Privy Council meetings anymore. He doesn’t antagonize her the way she used to, and, the reminder of his protection that night still fresh in her mind, she does not make her usual snide remarks. She would even deign to say that they are civil to one another.

Because they are not biting each other’s heads off, they do not find themselves tumbling into each other’s arms after, biting and scratching and fucking in retaliation. It feels strange, and if she’s being entirely honest, she misses it. 

Once or twice, she tries to relieve the ache between her legs, but her own fingers are nothing like Alexander’s, and she lacks the fire that always burns between them. She only ends up bored and a little irritated before punching her pillow and trying to sleep away the ache.

She supposes she could just  _ ask _ him, but that would be admitting that she wants him, and she doesn’t think she can bear that. It was so much simpler when it was just a natural falling into each other, no words save whispered promises in the moment. To ask him, to  _ confront _ him, is too difficult. 

It’s almost a relief, then, when her lady-in-waiting announces that Alexander Stewart is without, asking for a word.

“You can send him in,” Meg says, setting down her sister Mary’s letter. She is to wed the King of France, a man of fifty-two and considerable girth. Their difference in age is even greater than Meg and James’s was, and she hopes whatever words she sends in reply will be of comfort and not empty platitudes. At least Henry has promised Mary that when Louis dies (which should not take long), she can marry anyone of her choosing. Meg does not have such a luxury. 

Alexander enters her solar with an awkward look on his face, and she is reminded of the last time he came to call on her. He’d left her boneless and giddy that time, and she hopes this time will have a similar outcome. 

“Lord Stewart.”

“Your Grace.”

“Please. Sit.”

He does, still looking uncomfortable. 

“How...can I help you?” Meg asks after a long pause. 

He doesn’t answer right away, fiddling with the saint medal around his neck. “How are ye?” he asks suddenly.

She blinks at him. “I’m well, thank you. And...you?”

“Fine.” 

Silence descends once more, and once more, Meg prods at his reason for being here. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Eh…” He scratches his beard. “Nothing, really.”

Meg tilts her head, bewildered. “Are you here to…?” She gestures vaguely.

“No,” he says at once, and then amends, “I mean, we  _ can--” _

“But that’s not why you’re here,” she muses.

Through the tangle of black hair, she can see his skin reddening. “Ah, forget it.”

“No, wait!” She half-rises as he makes for the door. “What’s going on? Please?”

He wrings the black cap in his hands. “Nothing, I just...ye said ye were lonely.”

She stares at him. “So you’re here...to keep me company?”

“This was a bad idea,” he decides, turning for the door again.

“Alexander Stewart, come back here!” she commands, gripping the edge of her desk.

He walks slowly and stiffly, taking a reluctant seat before her. 

Meg sits down too, biting her lip. She doesn’t know what to say, and it’s clear that Alexander doesn’t know, either, but she doesn’t want him to go. She  _ wants _ for him to keep her company, she just wishes she knew how to move forward. 

“My sister is getting married,” she blurts, seizing on the first thing that pops into her mind.

“Oh,” he says, looking relieved that she’s chosen a subject.

“To the King of France,” she continues, consulting Mary’s letter. “He’s supposed to be very old and fat, so Mary hopes to be a widow soon.”

“So she can get married to another old fat man?”

“Surprisingly, no; my brother has promised she can marry any man she chooses when the time comes. I mean, assuming she doesn’t have any children.”

“She probably won’t.” Alexander takes out a knife and begins to clean his nails. Meg decides not to comment on that. 

“Why don’t you think she will?”

“Ill health. Or so my brother says. Yer sister’s probably in fer a disappointing wedding night.”

“Actually, I’m sure that will thrill her.” Meg rests her chin in her hand. “Your brother spends a lot of time in the French court, doesn’t he?”

“Aye. He’s spent most his life there. Owns French land, married a Frenchwoman. He visits Scotland every few years so people don’t forget him, but he spends the rest of his time in France.”

“Have you ever been?”

“Once,” he says, which surprises her. She cannot imagine someone like Alexander Stewart tromping through France. “Hated it.”

She laughs. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“It was too…”

“Clean?”

“Yer very funny,” he says as if he doesn’t find her very funny at all. “Actually, it wasnae very clean. The French piss  _ everywhere. _ And then they make fun of yer clothes and yer manners, as if they weren’t just whipping out their--well.”

Meg raises an eyebrow. “My sister will be thrilled.”

“You ever been?”

“To France? No.”

“Yer not missing anything.”

“Just men whipping out their cocks and pissing, apparently, which is what every Privy Council meeting feels like.”

He makes a strangled sound. “Ye wanna know the secret? Te getting through those meetings?”

She narrows her eyes, suspiciously intrigued. “Tell me.”

He leans forward. “At the beginning, suggest whatever ye want te get done. They’ll argue with ye, and then they’ll argue with each other, and it’ll come around so that by the end of the meeting someone suggests whatever you said and makes it sound like their idea, and they’ll go along with it. Just don’t point out that it was yer idea first and they’ll think they’re putting it to ye. Then just make a show of relenting and they’ll be happy.”

Meg purses her lips. “That might actually work.”

“I told ye.” He leans back, satisfied. 

“Why are you telling me this?”

He shrugs. “Just helping a friend.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are we friends?”

He shrugs again. “We can be.”

She looks down at Mary’s letter. “I can’t tell if I appreciate the offer or resent the pity.”

“Isnae pity, but I could be more of a pig if it’d make ye feel better.”

“Oh good, I’d barely recognize you otherwise.”

His beard twitches. “See now, how could I ever pity such a  _ charming _ woman?”

“My lack of charm is what makes me charming. Or so I’ve been told.” She drums her fingers on the arm of her chair, wondering if she dares say what’s on her mind. “Earlier…”

“Aye.”

“You said...we can…” She gestures vaguely, hoping he doesn’t make her spell it out.

He doesn’t, but the shit-eating grin on his face nearly gives her second thoughts. 

_ “Don’t _ look at me like that,” she commands, raising an accusing finger. 

“Ye’ve missed me.”

She can feel herself blushing, and she hates herself for it. “If you’re going to lord it over me, then I  _ will _ have you castrated-- _ what are you doing?” _ she demands, for he’s getting up and coming around the desk. She rises, too, determined not to be caught off her guard, but nothing prepares her for how swiftly he picks her up and deposits her on the desk.

“What are friends for?” he asks with that shit-eating grin before disappearing under her dress.

Meg grips the desk until her knuckles turn white as Alexander finally, finally,  _ finally _ eases the ache between her legs.

.

Friendship with Alexander has its benefits. She takes his advice about Privy Council meetings, and watches in amazement as it unfolds exactly as he promised it would; when she glances at him, her eyes widening subtly, he gives her a small wink before pretending to argue with Gavin Douglas. 

He never outright agrees with her in these meetings, which she knows is too much to ask of him, but she isn’t blind to the subtle way he advocates for her. Most of the time, anyway. There are times when he’ll storm into her study after a meeting and they’ll argue over her ideas and the way she approaches things. 

Meg likes these arguments, because she’s come to realize that Alexander doesn’t do it to anger her, he does it because he knows she can take his criticism and can do better. He argues with her the way he argues with the other men, as an equal. 

She also likes what comes after the arguments, an aspect of their friendship she appreciates almost as much as the arguing and the advocating. They never talk about it, for which she is grateful, but there’s a sort of understanding between them now that it doesn’t just have to come from arguing or shouting at each other, that they don’t have to pretend it was an accident to enjoy it. 

But oddly, more than that, more than the arguing and the advocating, she enjoys talking to him. He has never held back with her, in arguing or in...well, the other thing, and conversation with him is much the same. He is relentless in his questions and brutally honest in his answers, and Meg, who is so used to the subtleties of politics, finds it utterly refreshing to say what she means and to know what he’s thinking. No mind games, no holding back, no patting and placating...just two friends talking.

“My brother wrote,” he tells her at James’s birthday celebration, where they sit under a silk awning and watch young gallants tilt at the quintain. It had been James’s request, and Meg had been loath to deny him, but she wishes her stepson had a birthday in a more temperate season. The summer sun is sweltering, and everywhere Meg looks, she sees ladies desperately waving fans. The only person who does not seem to mind is Janet, who leans out of the box to watch the tilts. Meg had sent her boys back to the castle as soon as they had been ceremonially trotted out, not wanting to subject the babes to this heat, and wishes that she anything like their excuse to avoid the heat.

At least James is happy, which is the important thing. 

“Oh? And what did the illustrious Duke of Albany have to say?” she asks, clapping for James. He pulls up his visor, beaming at her, and she waves to show that she’s watching.

“He saw yer sister married to Louis.”

“Please tell me she wasn’t sobbing all the way to the altar.”

“No, she just looked a bit sick, according te him.”

“Well, that’s better than sobbing, I suppose.” Meg has thought often of her little sister, who was still a small child when she left for Scotland. It’s hard to imagine that tiny girl as the new Queen of France.

_ Two queens and a king. Our parents must be smiling down from Heaven. _

“He also met yer brother.” 

That catches Meg’s attention; she looks over at Alexander, trying to read his face. “And how was that?”

Alexander shrugs, pretending to watch the tourney even though nothing’s happening at the moment. “Could’ve been better. Could’ve been worse.” He drinks from his cup of ale. “Yer brother said something about Scotland and France being in each other’s beds.”

“Bold words, coming from a man who put his sister in the French king’s bed.”

Alexander’s beard twitches. “That’s what I thought too. My brother wants te know how Scotland is faring under  _ the woman.” _

_ “The woman?” _ she huffs.

“Well, that’s what I call ye when I write te him.”

“Charming to the last, pig.” She turns her attention back to the tourney. “Janet, have a care, you’re making me nervous leaning so far out. And what did you tell your brother about the woman?”

“Didnae write back yet.”

“What  _ are _ you going to tell him?”

“I’ll say things could be better. Could be worse.”

She rolls her eyes at him, but he just grins impishly.

“My queen!”

Meg turns her attention to where Angus is riding towards her, his helmet tucked underneath his arm. He has not tilted yet, but it is so hot out that already his hair is beginning to stick to his forehead. 

“Lord Douglas,” she greets kindly.

He beams up at her. “I was hoping I could wear your favor in the joust.”

Meg offers an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I have already given it to the Earl of Moray, as it is his birthday celebration. Perhaps another time.”

Angus inclines his head. “I will be content with your smile until then.” He urges his horse away.

“Oh, fer the love of Christ,” Alexander mutters. 

Meg’s ladies-in-waiting, who have been fanning themselves furiously and barely paying attention to the proceedings up until now, burst into giggles. 

“I believe you have caught the eye of the Earl of Angus, Your Grace,” titters her lady Elizabeth.

“I think he was just being gallant,” Meg says. She remembers knights being like this all the time in England, especially towards her mother the queen; why should Angus be any different?

“Just like his father,” Alexander mutters. “Crown Prince Mary Jane.”

“At least he’s jousting,” Meg points out, more to rile him up than anything. “I don’t see you out there tilting.”

“Nae, because when I put on my armor, I do it fer a  _ real _ fight, not te knock these beardless boys off their horses,” Alexander huffs. 

“Janet,  _ please, _ you’re going to fall out.”

The girl finally retreats to sit on Meg’s other side. “Have you fought many battles, Lord Stewart?”

“I’ve seen my fair share. I squired fer yer father the king when he invaded England in ‘97.”

Meg looks at him in surprise. “I didn’t know that.” She remembers that invasion; the pretender Perkin Warbeck claimed he was one of her mother’s missing brothers, and he’d raised an army to take the throne. He’d lived at court for a time before his execution, though Meg only ever caught glimpses of him. She was a princess, after all, and he was just a nothing boy from nowhere. Later, his wife Cathy became Meg’s lady-in-waiting when she moved to Scotland. Meg had never asked Cathy about her first husband, and Cathy had never brought it up. She’s gone from court now, married to another man.

“I was blooded early,” Alexander says wryly. “There were a few fights after the invasion here and there, mostly petty rebellions; the siege of Cairn-na-Burgh was the biggest battle I fought before Flodden.”

“Oh,” says Janet, who was only two at the time and has no memory of it, but she isn’t about to let the grownups know that. 

.

James wins the day, as everyone anticipated; even if Meg had not requested it of the other competitors, they would have ceded victory to the birthday boy. Nevertheless, the spectators cheer loudly when he is named the victor, though Meg privately thinks their cheers are more because they’re glad to get out of the heat than anything.

After the tourney, she sponges off the sweat with cold water and changes for the feast. There is music and dancing, and James, sitting at Meg’s right hand side in the seat of honor, watches the festivities with a delighted smile. As this is his birthday, and he is now a handsome young man of fifteen, no lady denies him when he asks for a dance, and Meg watches in amusement as her stepson basks in the attention of so many.

Angus approaches her just as a galliard is striking up, bowing. “May I have the honor of this dance, my queen?”

“Of course, my lord.” In truth, Meg does not feel overmuch like dancing, especially to a galliard, but she has no real reason to say no, and besides, she had already refused Angus earlier today. She takes his hand, letting him lead her out to the floor.

Angus is a good dancer, which does not surprise Meg; poets, she’s found, are often exceptional dancers, no matter how bad their poetry may be. 

“You are glowing this evening, Your Grace,” he tells her, and Meg huffs out a laugh.

“It is this heat, my lord.”

“No, I mean...an ethereal glow,” he amends. “As if God himself was shining his light upon you.”

Meg is so surprised that she nearly trips. This is too forward for gallantry. “That is kind of you, my lord.” 

“I wrote another ode for you,” he continues. “Would you like to hear it?”

And Meg, too queenly to refuse, finds herself subjected to Angus’s bad poetry for the rest of the dance, trying to mask her horror as he speaks to her of birds and stars and roses, always the bloody roses. She pretends she is focused on the dance, but in truth, she is trying to plot her escape. 

She needn’t bother, because no sooner has the dance ended than James is at her side. 

“Your Grace, might I have the honor of the next dance?” he asks.

She beams at him. “Of course, my lord.” She curtsies again to Angus, who gives a respectful bow before leaving them.

“Lord Alexander said you were in need of rescue,” James says as soon as the next dance has begun.

She glances at where Alexander is leaning against a wall, arms folded as he watches her. She mouths  _ thank you _ and turns back to her partner. “He was correct, and I thank you for your chivalry.”

“He was talking an awful lot.”

Meg grimaces. “He wrote me an ode.”

“Oh  _ no.” _

“Oh, yes. I think he called me a rose three times.”

James shakes his head. “You should be careful with him.”

“I’m not going to fall for his charms,” Meg assures him. “Even if my regency did not depend on my remaining unwed, I would never entertain a man who left his wife to die while he carried on with his mistress.”

James glances at Angus, who is talking to his uncle Gavin. “I wonder that he tries to charm you. The Douglases prosper as long as you are regent; they have always been allies to England. If Angus seeks to court you and marry you, they would lose their power when Albany comes to claim the regency.”

“You think Angus wants to marry me?” she asks, perplexed.

“Why else would he write you these odes and ask to wear your favor?”

“He’s just being a gentleman,” she says, but she somehow knows that James is right. Angus isn’t just being a gentlemen; there’s a determination behind these gestures.

But why? It’s as James said, the Douglases are prospering under her reign; they can only seek to lose if she takes a husband, even if that husband is a Douglas himself. 

She asks Alexander about it later, cooling off in a dark corner with a glass of wine. He looks unhappy, as he always does when the subject of the Douglases arises, but he answers her evenly. “My brother is away in France. If you married Angus, the Douglases would try te take power; they’d press fer yer regency and name my brother and those who support him traitors.”

“Can they do that? I mean, legally?”

“Well, that’s the thing about legality; the law is whatever the people with power say it is.  _ Legally, _ my brother would be regent if you were te marry Angus, but if the law is made by the Douglases…”

“I see.” She sips from her wine, watching James dance with a pretty Fraser girl. She can’t remember ever being that young and carefree. “Well, the Douglases must be content with where things are now. I’m not going to marry until Jamie is of age  _ at least, _ and certainly not to a  _ Douglas.” _

“I’ll drink te that.”

They tap their drinks together--his wooden cup of ale against her glass of wine--and drink deeply.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some spice in this chapter to make up for the last two ;)

Angus’s attempts to woo Meg do not, as she had hoped, come to an end. If anything, they only become more determined. She becomes the recipient of constant odes and tokens, things that, by themselves, are no great cause for concern, but together, there can be no doubt of his intentions.

Meg hardly knows what to do. To accept these gifts could be a sign for him to continue, but to refuse them could be seen as an insult. 

So she decides to bring in an outside opinion.

.

Alexander surveys the gifts with disbelief.

“This is  _ all _ from Angus?”

“Yes,” she says, flushing. “There are odes, too.” She indicates a sheaf of papers.

Alexander shakes his head. “This is too much. And you haven’t sent  _ any _ of it back?”

“I didn’t want to offend the Douglases,” she explains.

“Ye cannae keep all of it,” he says bluntly. “Or even most of it. It looks like yer encouraging him.”

“I haven’t worn anything he’s given me, and I’ve even given some of his tokens to my ladies.”

“Yer still keeping them, though,” he points out. “You want my advice? Give it all back. Except the odes,” he amends.

“Why the odes?”

“Because I want te laugh at ‘em later.

Meg clasps her hands together. “Alexander...my dear,  _ dear _ friend, the  _ bravest _ man I know…”

His eyes narrow. “What?”

She tries to look as beguiling as she knows how. “I fear the sting of rejection coming from me would be  _ too much _ for the Earl of Angus, whereas if a  _ neutral _ third party were to return these tokens…”

“Don’t even  _ think _ about getting me involved!” he retorts. “This is yer mess, woman!”

She juts out her lower lip. “Please?”

“No.”

“Alexander!” She grips his arm when he tries to leave. “Please, I don’t want to face him  _ alone. _ What if he tries something?”

“That little girl?”

“Not like  _ that, _ I mean, what if he starts crying or pulls out another ode or something? I don’t think I can handle that.” She looks up at him imploringly. “Please, just...can you do it? I’ll be in your debt.”

Alexander clenches his jaw. “You’d owe me a hell of a favor, woman.”

“Whatever you want,” she promises.

She can see him thinking it over. Finally, he gives her a stiff nod. “Fine.”

If her solar wasn’t such an open place where anyone could be watching her, she would kiss him. “Thank you, Alex.”

“And I am getting  _ whatever _ I want fer this.”

She nods quickly. “Yes, of course.”

He gives her one last look before gathering up Angus’s tokens--gloves and bracelets, nosegays and brooches--in a gilded box that Angus had also given her. He leaves the room in a dark mood, but Meg thinks she would rather pay whatever price Alexander sets than deal with Angus or his tokens ever again.

.

Alexander comes to her when she is trying to corral the children in the nursery. All of James’s children are at Edinburgh today, and Meg is beginning to wonder what possessed her to invite all of them when she sees Alexander in the doorway. Deciding that Alexander’s wrath is preferable to the hoard of children screaming and climbing on each other, she steps out into the hall to speak with him.

“How did it go?”

“Not well,” he says bluntly. “I had te  _ console _ him.”

“Well, you didn’t  _ have _ to--”

He raises a finger to silence her. “ _ Your _ mess, woman!”

“I know.” She offers him a guilty smile. “Thank you? I owe you a very great debt?”

He glances around the hall and, seeing that they are not in immediate danger of being overheard, leans in. “I am going te make ye pay fer this. Ye won’t know when, ye won’t know how, but I am going te get ye back.”

Meg feels an immediate warmth between her legs, her exhale coming a little harder than she means it to at the low thunder of his voice. She almost wants him to drag her off and get her back now...but not knowing when her payback is coming thrills her.

“Promise?” she breathes, smiling up at him.

He gives her hair a short, sharp tug, one that makes her breath hitch before he leaves her.

Meg watches him leave, biting her lip. She’s looking forward to her payback.

.

Every single day, she waits for Alexander to get her back, and every single day, she goes to bed both relieved and disappointed. He does not find her in private in the meantime, and Meg does not dare approach him to ask questions. Alexander is as stubborn as she is, and he will take his remuneration when he is ready.

She  _ does _ feel a little bad about guilting him into taking the tokens back to Angus, but the thought of doing it herself had been unbearable. If he was so distraught that  _ Alexander _ had to console him, she cannot imagine what would have happened if she’d gone. 

It surprises her, too, to learn that Angus needed consoling in the first place. She had assumed his wooing was more a matter of politics than true emotion. To learn that he was upset by her returning the tokens makes her wonder if perhaps there was an emotional element to his courting. 

Not that it matters. She still does not think she can forgive him the negligence that led to his wife’s death, and she knows from the court gossips that Jane Stewart is still his mistress. And Meg cannot marry, of course, not for quite some time. So no, it doesn’t matter.

It’s been over a week since the tokens were returned when a noise wakes Meg. She doesn’t think much of it at first, assuming it’s a servant on the stair, but she hears a whispering sound even closer to her now. She sits up, blinking, but the light from her lone candle is so low that every shape and shadow looks like a threat. 

_ You’re imagining things, _ she tells herself, but she swears it feels like someone is in the room. She gets out of bed, lighting more candles so she can reassure herself that, like a small child, she is only afraid of the dark.

A rough hand claps over her mouth, and before she can wrestle free of the presence behind her, she feels the sharp point of a knife at her throat. Meg tries to scream, hoping someone can hear her through the hand, but a low, familiar voice growls, “I told ye I was going to get ye back.”

She calms at the sound of Alexander’s voice, and then thrills when she realizes she is about to have a very, very good night.

“If I take my hand off yer mouth, will you be quiet?”

She nods as much as she dares with his knife still pointed at her throat. He releases her mouth, his free hand wrenching her arm behind her. Meg wishes she didn’t like this as much as she does, but she can feel the warmth pooling between her legs, her heart pounding and breath coming hard as he walks her to the bed.

“You ready for this?” he murmurs.

She starts to nod before remembering the knife. “Yes.”

“Mm, I don’t think ye are.”

“Are you going to do anything or just keep talking?”

He bends her over the bed so quickly that it takes her breath away. She gasps into the coverlet, heart pounding. 

“Talk like that again,” he growls in her ear, “and you’ll wish ye hadn’t.”

A cheeky retort dies on her lips when he delivers a short, sharp slap to her bottom. Meg has never been spanked once in her life, and to her shock, she finds that she likes it. 

He grips a fistful of her hair, tugging her head back. “This isn’t over until yer begging for it. Ye ken?”

“Yes,” she whispers, a thrill running down her spine.

.

Alexander is true to his word: it is not over until Meg begs for it. 

She doesn’t know how long she spends at Alexander’s mercy, but it feels like hours. She’d thought they were rough in those hidden corners and alcoves after a heated council meeting, but those moments are nothing compared to this. She realizes now that he’d never used more strength than was necessary before, but  _ now… _

Alexander fucks her harder than she’s ever been fucked before, but at the same time, there is a care to it, a calculated manner of drawing out her climaxes one after the other. She never knew it could be like this, this constant near-pain that drives her into mind-numbing pleasure that feeds into near-pain that sends her crashing to mind-numbing pleasure again. 

She submits to him completely, trusting him to see her through it all. And he does; it’s as if he knows her body better than she does, knows what she likes and what she can take. She’s so used to being in control all the time, and just this once, it feels good to let someone else do it for her. He’s rough with her, yes, but he would never truly hurt her. She knows that, and it gives her the freedom to surrender to him.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs once, and Meg nearly comes from that alone.

When she does beg, tears pricking her eyes not from pain, but from too much pleasure, he softens at once, drawing her in his arms and kissing the tears from her eyes. She submits to this, too, knowing he will see her through it.

It feels like a long time later when she comes back to herself, half-asleep in his arms. 

“Ye alright?” he murmurs, an uncharacteristically tender hand stroking her back.

“Christ Jesu,” she whispers.

She can feel his chuckle reverberate through his chest. “Told ye I’d get ye back.”

“I’m thoroughly chastened.”

“Chaste isnae the word I would choose for it…” He laughs when she slaps his chest. 

“Pig.”

“I am,” he agrees. 

Pig or not, he stays with her the rest of the night, for which she’s glad. 

“I hate sleeping alone,” she confides in the early hours of the morning. Already half-asleep herself, she unthinkingly murmurs, “Wish you’d sleep here every night.”

She passes fully into unconsciousness before she can curse herself for her candor. 

.

Alexander never acknowledges the comment Meg made before she fell asleep--at least not directly. He does start visiting her at night more often, though, and not always with a knife at her throat.

(Sometimes he does, though, but only when Meg asks nicely.)

She looks forward to those nights, when they make love in her bed and then talk until they fall asleep. It feels so  _ normal, _ just like any of their other talks; the only difference is they don’t wear clothes during these talks.

“Can you explain something to me?” she asks one night, brushing out the tangles he’d left in her hair. “I mean, really explain it, not just roll your eyes and say something rude about the English?”

“I can try te explain whatever it is yer asking, but you English--”

“Fine, fine.” She takes a deep breath. “What  _ happened _ the first time our countries went to war? The story I was always told was that there was disorder in Scotland and the nobles asked King Edward I to help bring peace, and the fighting that came out of it was just...I don’t know, petty uprisings. I know the English garrisoned in Scotland weren’t completely innocent, but...I mean, you all  _ really hate _ the English, so I feel as though I may not have been given the full story.”

Alexander blows out a breath, propping himself up on his elbow. In the candlelight, Meg can see the faint lines scars on his chest--two taken in the training yard as a boy, one from a hunting accident, three from battle, and one from a drunken Douglas. Or so Alexander says. 

“It wasnae just disorder,” he says, and she’s snapped back to the present. “When the king died without an heir, the clans started fighting amongst themselves because this one or that had just as good a claim to the throne as the others. They did ask Edward te help, because England is our closest neighbor and they didnae think the English king would take power. But before he would help, he made all the claimants to the throne name him Lord Paramount. So no one could put forward his claim without acknowledging that the English king had absolute power. After that, he named John Balliol the King of Scotland. Balliol was a shite king who did whatever Edward wanted him to. Edward stripped Scottish nobles of their power and set his own laws, and when the people rebelled, he forced Balliol te abdicate, which left Edward in control of Scotland again.”

Pieces of the story are familiar, but not in the way Alexander is telling it. 

“The war was bloody and long, but we won our freedom from the English and named Robert the Bruce the King of Scotland. And fer a time, there was peace.”

“Until,” she prompts.

“Until Balliol’s  _ blodig _ grandson decided he was owed the crown that the first Edward gave him, and got the new English king te support him. So another  _ blodig _ Edward invaded Scotland  _ again,  _ and there was more fighting. King David was a child raised in France, and as a man he spent eleven years in captivity in England. His wife was the sister of the English king, his mistress was English, and the peace he reached with England took a toll on Scotland.”

Meg begins to see similarities to her own situation--the King of Scotland too young to rule, the Queen of Scotland sister to the King of England.

“So even though there was a Scottish king, he was really ruled by the English,” she murmurs.

“Aye.”

She’s quiet for a moment, considering all this. “My son is not ruled by the English,” she says at last. “Just because I was born there and just because my brother is the English King doesn’t mean...it doesn’t mean Henry rules Jamie.”

“I know,” Alexander says gently, and she’s grateful to him for saying that. “But the other nobles don’t know that.”

She sighs, leaning back against her pillows. “Then how do I make them see?”

“Ye can’t,” he says simply. “Two hundred years of English kings invading our lands and giving them te English nobles, killing our men and raping our women...there’s no undoing that. Yer marriage to James brought peace between our countries, but it doesn’t mean the past is forgotten. As long as you’re the regent, they won’t trust you.”

Meg’s heart sinks. She has never been foolish enough to believe that  _ all _ the lairds would love her, but she had hoped that in time she would earn their trust. To learn that they will never trust her, no matter what she does…

“Eh, don’t look so upset,” Alexander says, seeing the distress on her face. “You’ve seen the clans, they barely trust each other.”

“I know.”

“Stop thinking about politics fer a minute, will ye?” And with that, he tugs the sheets away from her, sliding down to hook her legs over his shoulders, and then Meg can’t think about politics or anything else. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi I've been waiting to post this chapter for ages now, I hope you enjoy!

For a time, Meg feels happy. Happier, she realizes, than she’s been in years. Her children are safe and healthy, the Privy Council does not hate her, the people are content, Scotland is at peace, and she has a true friend in Alexander.

Naturally, it all has to come crashing down.

She’s taking her midday meal alone, for a change, all of James’s other children having been packed off to Holyrood save James, who is out hunting with Alexander, when her lady-in-waiting Nan enters, curtsying. “Your Grace, the Earl of Angus is without, and requests an audience with you. He said it was a delicate matter.”

Meg mislikes that. She strongly suspects that Angus is here to renew his courtship, to bring her more odes or tokens. If this was a political matter, she cannot imagine the Douglases entrusting Angus with it. And yet, what can she do? She has no real reason to refuse him, and if he knows that, he will be slighted, and the Douglases may feel slighted on his behalf. 

“Very well,” she says, getting up. “I will speak with him.” She leaves her room, moving into her solar. Angus is looking at the tapestries on the wall, but he turns to smile at her when she enters.

“My lord,” she greets carefully. “How can I help you?”

He bows his head. “Queen Margaret...I first want to reassure you I know your reasons for returning my tokens. I was overzealous, and I apologize for that.”

She gives him a small smile. “They were beautiful gifts.”

He clears his throat. “I composed an ode for you.”

_ Of course you did, _ Meg thinks wryly. “That is very kind--”

Angus drops to one knee, taking her hand in his.

_ “I will want you ‘til the sun goes down o’er all of time. _

_ Until that day, will you be mine?” _

Meg stares at him, trying hard to conceal her horror. “Oh...my lord...that is…”

“Will you marry me?” he blurts, gripping her hand tighter as she tries to draw back. 

“Angus, I...I cannot,” she says, still trying to pull free. “I must remain unwed to rule as the Queen Regent--”

“You can still rule as Queen Regent,” he says fiercely. “Albany is away in France; if we married, by the time he got here, the Douglases would--”

“No, Angus.” She yanks free at least. It’s just as Alexander warned her; Angus would marry her and put the Douglases in control of the kingdom. “I have worked hard to keep the peace. I will not be the cause of Stewart warring against Douglas once more.” She draws back before he can reach for her again. “I am sorry if I misled you, my lord, but I cannot and I will not marry you. That is final.”

Angus stares at her for a moment...and then he rises, his boyish earnestness replaced with a cool, calm demeanor. “I beg you to reconsider.”

“I will not--”

He raises a hand, and she is so stunned by his sudden assertiveness that she falls silent.

“If you do not agree to marry me,” he says calmly, “then I will tell the Privy Council that you have taken Alexander Stewart for your lover.”

She flushes, trying not to betray anything...but she can see from the look in his eyes that he already knows. 

“I will tell them,” he continues, “that I have seen him enter your bedchamber, and there I have heard such acts of depravity as would make the Privy Council reconsider granting you custody of the king and his brother, let alone the regency.”

Meg feels an icy stab of fear. To take the regency away from her is one thing, but to take the boys away…

But they might do it. Alexander himself said that they will never trust her as long as she is regent, and if those who dislike her more than others find an excuse to take the boys away, they’ll seize it then and there. Taking lovers is nothing new in the Scottish court, but for the Queen Regent to take a lover, for her own morality to be questioned...her children would never recover from the stain.

_ I have doomed my sons with my own wantonness. _

But that still begs the question… “Why were you watching my bedchamber?”

Angus chuckles. “One of your ladies let me in. Seems she appreciated my gifts more than you did. She would be willing to testify before the Privy Council that that Stewart bastard has intimate knowledge of the queen.”

“How  _ dare _ you?” Meg seethes, clenching her fists to hide their tremble. One of her own ladies has betrayed her, and to  _ Angus, _ no less. 

“Easily.” Angus gives her a condescending smile. “I know this must be quite a lot for you to take in. I’ll give you three days to think it over. I trust you’ll choose wisely.” And with that, he leaves her.

Meg sinks into the nearest chair, her whole body trembling now. 

She’s done for. Either she marries Angus, angers the Privy Council, and plunges the country into civil war again, or she does not marry him but tarnishes her reputation and loses both the regency and her children. 

There must be a third way, something her frightened mind can’t grasp yet. Darkly, she thinks that she might be able to induce Alexander to kill Angus and make it look like an accident...but whichever of her ladies betrayed her would surely know the truth, and come forward to the Privy Council anyway.

Unbidden, Meg begins to cry. How can she have been so foolish? Did she truly think she could get away with taking a man into her bed without anyone finding out? Even if the Stewarts came to her defense on behalf of Alexander, the Douglases would never stand for it. 

_ But if I marry Angus just to keep my children, I will lose all the Stewarts. _

She doesn’t think even Alexander would defend her then. 

Alexander. He’d know what to do. 

She starts to call for her ladies and then remembers that one of them betrayed her, and she isn’t about to entrust a message to any of them, not until she finds out the truth. Who, then, can she trust to deliver a message to Alexander?

“Negasi!” she calls, and a moment later, the musician enters, bowing.

“My queen.”

She goes to him, taking his hands in hers. “Negasi, I must ask a favor of you, and you must not speak of it to anyone else.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he says, confused.

“I need you to deliver a message to Alexander Stewart as soon as he’s back from hunting. Tell him to meet me in the chapel, alone. I have an urgent matter I need to discuss with him.”

Negasi furrows his brow. “Are you alright, my queen?”

“Please, just do it.”

He hesitates. “I will,” he says at last.

“Thank you, Negasi.” Meg squeezes his hands before walking away, wiping the fresh tears from her eyes. She takes her rosary and heads for the chapel, where she kneels before the crucifix and prays for guidance and protection.

.

It is a long time later when she hears the clearing of a throat. She looks over her shoulder, relieved to see Alexander in the doorway, his clothes stained with mud and a light sheen of sweat on his brow. Negasi must have intercepted him right away. 

She gets unsteadily to her feet. “You’re here.”

“Ye sent for me.” His eyes search hers. “What’s going on?”

She’s been lost in prayer for God knows how long, but now she is reminded why she’s here in the first place. She blinks back tears, determined not to weep just yet. “Angus knows. About us.”

He starts forward. “Yer sure?”

She nods, her fingers pinching the beads of her rosary. “One of my ladies told him. He saw you enter my bedchamber. He...heard us.” She takes a deep breath, willing her voice not to shake. “Alexander, he said that if I do not agree to marry him, he is going to tell the nobles of my  _ depravity  _ and make sure that I lost custody of my sons.”

“I’ll kill him,” Alexander promises at once.

She lets out a noise that is half-laugh, half-sob. “You cannot. Even if you made it look like an accident, one of my ladies knows, and she could still tell the Council.”

Alexander paces up and down the length of the small chapel, wiping the sweat from his brow as he thinks. “Ye cannae marry Angus.”

“No,” she agrees. “But...if he goes to the Council...do you think he’s right? That I’ll lose custody of the boys?”

He hesitates. “You might, or ye might not. But the Douglases will push fer you to lose custody. They will argue that I am using my place in yer bed te advocate fer my brother. If they convince the rest of the Council, you will lose custody of yer children. Even if they do not...this will follow your son onto the throne.”

Meg hurriedly wipes the tears spilling from her eyes. “Then what do I do? Tell me.”

He’s quiet for a long time, but Meg doesn’t press him, because she knows he’s thinking. She sinks into one of the pews, watching him and waiting.

At last, Alexander slows to a halt. Still staring at the floor, his eyes seeing but not comprehending, he says, “There is...one way out of this.”

She grips the arm of the pew. “Tell me.”

He hesitates. “It would mean giving up the regency, but it would also mean keeping custody of the boys without risking yer reputation.”

“I just want my sons,” she says, her voice cracking a little. “What is it?”

He rubs his chin, finally lifting his eyes to meet hers. “We get married.”

She stares at him. “Married?”

His face is impossible to read. “If we get married in secret, immediately, then if Angus makes good on his threat, we can tell the Council that we are married. There is no crime in a man visiting his wife’s bed.” He hesitates, taking an uncertain step forward. “It will go better fer you if you send fer my brother Albany te take the regency. The nobles will take that as a good sign, and they’ll be willing te work with you until my brother arrives. He’s a good man, and he prefers France te Scotland. He won’t stay here long; give it a year or two, and then he’ll go back te France, and he’ll appoint me te manage things in his absence.”

Meg presses the beads of her rosary to her lips, thinking. 

_ Married. _

It would solve their problem. Angus cannot accuse her of depravity if she is married to the man visiting her bed. And if she sends for Albany, the nobles will see that she is willing to cooperate. The Douglases will not be happy, but they know they will not have a good enough excuse to turn on the Stewarts. And most all the other clans will be glad to have Albany. If Alexander speaks true, then when Albany leaves, Alexander will be given charge of the regency. Meg trusts Alexander with the regency. She trusts him with her life and the lives of her sons. She could be married to Alexander. He is already her truest friend, and her lover. He would be a good husband.

_ And I love him. _

It dawns on her suddenly and fiercely. She does love him. It’s a different kind of love than any she’s experienced before, but that doesn’t make it any less real. This isn’t the dutiful love of a daughter or sister or even a wife. This is something else. This is loving despite all the reasons not to.

This is real love.

She wipes her eyes, overcome with emotion. 

_ I love him. _

“Meg?”

And oh, God, he’s never used her name like that before. He’s never used her name at all. He never calls her anything unless he has to, and then it’s always “Your Grace” and “my queen” or even “woman.” But never Meg. 

“This is what you wanted me to do after Flodden,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “I should have listened then.”

“Well, I didnae ask ye te marry me then.”

She bites her lip. “This...is a good plan. But...are you sure that you want to do this? To...bind yourself to me forever?”

Still that look she cannot read. “We’re already bound, woman.” He lowers his eyes. “I know ye didn’t plan on marrying, and I’m not...who you would’ve picked...but I would be a good husband te you.”

_ I would have picked you a thousand times over. _ “I know. You have been a better friend to me than anyone. Which is why I don’t want you to throw away your life because of my stupidity.”

“This isnae yer fault, and it’s not throwing away my life if it’s with you,” he says stubbornly. 

Her heart leaps in her chest. “What do you mean?”

He makes a small noise of impatience. “Ye don’t know?”

“Know what--”

“Dammit, woman, I love you!” He sounds almost angry about it. “And I don’t--”

But Meg doesn’t give him time to finish, because she’s already crossed towards him and reached up to kiss him. 

Alexander wraps his arms around her waist, holding her against him as she deepens the kiss. She doesn’t think they’ve ever kissed without doing the other thing, and she isn’t opposed to doing the other thing now, but it feels so sweet to just kiss him now. 

_ He loves me. _

“I take it,” he murmurs when she draws back for breath at last, “the idea does not repel you?”

Meg smiles. “It does not, because I love you.”

Alexander is the one to kiss her now, this one hungrier than the last. She moans a little, and then pulls back. “We are in a chapel!”

Alexander laughs. “Aye, and marriage is a holy sacrament.”

She sucks in a breath, because in all honesty, she’d nearly forgotten that that’s why they were here now. “We have to marry soon. Angus said he’d give me three days to decide.”

Alexander’s face turns serious. “We could do it tonight. I can bring the bishop…”

Meg shakes her head. “Too many people here. We should go to St. Giles. After Compline, when everyone’s gone.”

He nods. “I can do that. They’ll make a record of the date, but if anyone asks, we can say my brother Arthur witnessed the handfasting weeks ago. He’ll lie for me.”

She had nearly forgotten Alexander’s brother was the Bishop of Moray. He’s too far away to preside over the actual wedding, but lying about a handfasting is just as good. 

“Alright.” She tries to think. “We’ll need--”

“Meg,” he murmurs, and she feels warmth pulse through her at the use of her name. His eyes are softer than she can ever remember seeing them. “I’ll take care of everything. Alright?”

God, she really does love him. Even now, in the middle of all this mess, he’s taking care of everything. 

Meg kisses him one last time before leaving the chapel to prepare. Come the morrow, she’ll be a married woman again.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last episode of TSP AND Margaret Tudor's birthday, so naturally an update was in order.

Meg dismisses her ladies as soon as she returns from the chapel, not trusting any of them at the moment. She spends the rest of the afternoon with her sons, opening her arms as they toddle towards her and smothering their faces with kisses. She can afford to lose the regency if it means keeping her sons. Let Albany take the regency, as long as she has her boys.

When the boys have to settle for their dinner, she goes to her chambers and writes a list, which she then gives to Negasi.

“Show this to the treasury guard, and swear him to secrecy. When he’s given you these items, bring them to me.  _ Directly _ to me, and speak of this to no one.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

She eats dinner in the great hall, listening to James tell her about the hunt. Alexander is absent, and she trusts that, as promised, he is taking care of everything. 

She’s so full of nerves that she hardly touches her plate and has to excuse herself from dinner early. Negasi is waiting for her; he hands over the jewelry, which she locks away in a chest. 

“Is everything alright, Your Grace?” he asks with concern.

“It will be, Negasi. It will be.”

.

Meg takes her litter to St. Giles, still uneasy at the prospect of being seen in the streets. But no one accosts her on the streets, and she is delivered to St. Giles unharmed. 

“I won’t be long,” she tells her guards when they hand her out; a subtle but clear order for them to remain outside. 

The great cathedral is quiet and empty, mostly dark save a few flickering candles. Alexander and the bishop are waiting in the antechamber, where the bishop inclines his head.

“Your Grace. If you would follow me.”

Meg does, glancing at Alexander; he squeezes her hand and she knows all will be well.

This wedding is so different from her first wedding. Or weddings, rather. There had been a formal ceremony in Westminster when she was married by proxy, and then another in the chapel at Dalkeith when she met James for the first time. Those had both been lavish affairs that were well-attended; there had been jousting after her wedding by proxy, and at the second ceremony, she and James had worn matching gowns of white and gold, and the feasting and merrymaking lasted all the way until they rode north on their progress.

This ceremony is simple and quiet, with no attendants save a priest and an altar boy acting as witnesses. Her gown is simple, her bridegroom wearing his usual tartan and leather, and her wedding ring is a simple gold band, though she is surprised at even this much. When the bishop declares them man and wife, Alexander kisses her chastely.

And just like that, they are married.

.

They leave St. Giles separately so as not to stir up any gossip. Meg dismisses the maid, telling her she has a headache and does not want to be disturbed for the rest of the night.

Alexander is there almost as soon as the maid has gone, taking her in his arms and kissing her. Though his kisses fill her with warmth, they are lacking the usual feverish quality that so often leads to the other thing. His kisses are slow and unhurried, and why shouldn’t they be? They are wed now, and what God has joined together, let no man put asunder. The whole court could discover them and it wouldn’t matter. 

Slowly, reverently, Meg begins removing his clothes. His hands join hers, undoing his belt and unwinding his tartan. She unlaces his jerkin, humming softly when she feels the warmth of his skin through the linen shirt beneath. 

Alexander draws her against him, kissing her as his fingers leisurely unlace her gown. He’s never undressed her before; in the past, they were either fully dressed in a corridor or she was in bed, already in a thin shift. He unlaces her with the same slow, unhurried pace, sliding her dress down her arms to pool around her feet. Her kirtle follows, and then he begins to pull the pins from her hair, unwinding her braids and running his fingers through her tresses.

“I love yer hair,” he murmurs against her head, and Meg barely represses the shiver running down her spine. She tugs at the hem of his shirt, standing on the tips of her toes to pull it over his head. 

The rest of their clothes join the others on the ground, and then she’s pulling him to the bed, where she lies back like she has dozens of times before.

But this isn’t like any of the other times. There is something wholly different about this time. 

Tender. Reverent. Sacred.

He holds her against his chest and strokes her hair after, murmuring nonsense words against her head. Meg listens to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, utterly content. At least for now.

“This,” she murmurs after a long silence, “has been the strangest day of my life.”

Alexander chuckles, the sound resonating in his chest. “Didnae know when you woke up today ye’d end it with a husband.”

“I did not. And after two different proposals, too.” She lifts her head to look up at Alexander. “What’s going to happen?”

He shifts to look at her better. “First, I’m going te send fer my brother. It’ll take a few weeks, but he’ll come straightaway if I tell him it’s urgent. Second, Angus will go te the Council in a matter of days. When that happens, and the nobles find out we’re married, you’ll have to step down as regent. We’ll tell them that we’ve already sent fer my brother, and that the marriage was only going to be kept secret until you could cede the regency. The Stewarts will argue that I should remain on the Council; the Douglases will want to take control. After that, I cannae say what will happen.” He cups her face in his hands. “But whatever does happen, I will not let them take the boys from you. I swear it.”

She turns her head to kiss his palm. “Thank you.”

He pushes her hair behind her ear. “It may be tense fer a few weeks. But even the Douglases can’t say no te my brother being the regent.”

She considers this. “And Angus? What will happen to him?”

Alexander lies back on the pillows, sighing. “Hard te say. Probably expulsion from the Council. Exile, if we’re lucky.”

“And if we’re not lucky?”

He shrugs. “He’ll find some other women te take advantage of and show up at court from time te time, just enough to be a pain in the balls.” He runs his fingers through her hair again. “What’re you gonna do about yer ladies?”

“I have a plan to sniff out the rat.” She lowers her head, kissing his chest. “Alexander?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you want children?”

He lifts his head sharply. “What?”

She colors, just a little. “Well, I made sure I  _ didn’t _ fall with child before, but now that we’re married, I didn’t know if...if you wanted…”

“Do you?”

“Yes,” she says bluntly. “But if you--”

In a flash, he’s rolled them over so that she’s flat on her back, Alexander hovering over her. 

“Woman,” he murmurs, and Meg feels a thrill at the old endearment, “there is nothing I would like more than te see you big with my child.”

Her hips roll of their own accord, which does not go unnoticed by Alexander. He touches her between the legs, and satisfied with whatever he feels there, he guides himself inside her. They groan in tandem, Meg arching her back as he fills her. He wraps her hair around his fist, tugging her head back so he can kiss her neck. She groans at that, too, her nails digging into his muscled back. His other hand takes one of hers, his fingers laced with hers as he presses it into the bed. 

She comes apart not much later with a cry, and if the hand in her hair did not already have her head tipped back, she would throw it back in pleasure now. She shudders around him, her release coming to an end, but then his hips are driving into hers as he finishes, and one wave of pleasure rolls into another. She’s trembling by the time she comes back to herself, held tight in Alexander’s arms while he kisses her. She can still feel him inside her, his body solid and warm between her legs. 

She closes her eyes, exhausted after the long day. 

“Sleep,” he murmurs.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“You’re always gone when I wake.”

He kisses her temple. “I’ll wake ye before I go.”

“Promise?” she hums, already half-asleep.

Another kiss. “Promise.” 

The last thing she hears before she falls asleep is a whispered, “I love you, Meg.”

She goes to sleep with a smile on her face.

.

He does wake her before he leaves, kissing her face and murmuring her name. 

“No,” she mumbles, trying to burrow into his chest.

“Woman, I have te go.”

_ “No.” _

“I’ll be back soon enough. Come on.” He sits up, bringing her with him. She watches through half-opened eyes as he slips the wedding band from her finger and puts it on a leather thong necklace. He ties it around her neck, the ring hanging down between her breasts.

“Just until Angus opens his fat mouth,” Alexander says. 

She smiles. “I almost wish he’d do it sooner rather than later. Then you wouldn’t have to sneak out at first light.”

He kisses the top of her head. “Don’t go getting soft on me now, woman.” He gets out of bed, pulling on his clothes one piece at a time. Meg watches him with a sinking heart. Last night she had felt untouchable, but now that he’s leaving and the morning sun is shining through the dream she was living in…

Alexander kisses her again when he’s finished dressing. “I’ll come te you tonight.”

“You’d better.”

He strokes her cheek with this thumb. “Tell me if Angus tries anything else.”

She nods. “I will.”

He kisses her one more time before leaving.

Meg sinks back against her pillows, pulling the covers up and over her shoulders. Her ladies will be here soon to help her dress...and then, she’ll begin to lay her trap.

.

Meg spends the next three days waiting for something to happen, but it never does. No one bursts into her rooms accusing her of depravity or takes her children away. She knows Angus said he would give her three days to decide, but she feels certain that someone knows she and Alexander wed. 

Her ladies do not seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary, or if they do, they are careful to hide it. Meg looks around at all of them, wondering who was the one to go to Angus. Who let him in her room in exchange for a pretty piece of jewelry?

And speaking of jewelry…

Meg finds time over those three days to draw aside each one of her ladies. She does it subtly, on this pretext or that, always making sure they are alone when she does it.

“Look,” she tells them, as though she is bursting to share a secret. She’ll hold up the ring or bracelet or necklace fetched from the treasury, items that her ladies have not seen. “Lord Alexander gave this to me. Isn’t it pretty?” After they exclaim over the jewelry, she says, “You mustn’t tell anyone, not even the others; there are many who would pay dearly to know this secret.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” the ladies always say. 

She makes a note of what she shows to whom: pearl earrings to Catherine, a gold bracelet to Nan, a jewel-encrusted cross to Elizabeth, a brooch in the shape of a rose to Mary, a pendant of St. Anne to Jane Mortimer and a pendant of St. Anthony to Jane Douglas. None of her ladies look particularly like they’re planning to betray her, but one of them already has. It’s just a matter of finding out who, now. 

.

Life goes on much as it always had over those three days. There are nobles to meet with, household matters that need attending to, and a nerve-wracking Privy Council meeting that Meg nearly excuses herself from. In the end, though, she knows that not going will only make Angus think he’s won, so she steels herself and endures that hour with a pounding heart. 

Looking back, she’ll always be grateful to Alexander for making those three days bearable. He comes to her every night and even visits her in her study as if nothing has changed. He writes to his brother Albany on the first day, urging him to come to Scotland at once; he writes to his brother Arthur the same day, begging him to say he joined Alexander and Meg in a precontract when he was last in Edinburgh two months ago. Meg, whose own mother and aunts and uncles were temporarily delegitimized because of an alleged precontract, knows the power that such a claim will have.

Even if Albany makes all haste for Edinburgh, it will take at least a month for him to get here, and Meg knows Angus doesn’t plan on waiting that long. She only hopes that Alexander is right, and that the nobles will let him remain on the Council. He’ll make sure the boys stay with her. Even if the Douglases get their way and he’s not allowed on the Council, he has enough influence with the other nobles that things might be alright, at least until the mysterious Albany arrives.

Alexander has told her precious little about his brother, and in truth, she wonders if that’s because he hardly knows his brother himself. The man has spent his entire life in France, only coming to Scotland for the occasional visit, and Alexander has only visited him in France once. But he trusts Albany, and Meg trusts Alexander, so all she can do is pray for Albany’s swift appearance.

.

On the third day, while Meg is in her study and Alexander is pretending to pester her, her maid enters to say, “The Earl of Angus is without, Your Grace, and requests an audience.”

Meg and Alexander trade a look, both knowing why he is here. Meg is glad; Angus clearly doesn’t know Alexander is here, or else he wouldn’t have come. 

“Send him in,” Meg says. Alexander stays seated on the edge of her desk, but she doesn’t miss the way his hand curls around the hilt of his dirk.

Angus enters with confident smile that slowly slides off his face as he takes in the scene. The door closes behind him and he swallows.

“Your Grace...Lord Stewart.”

“My lord,” Meg says, barely looking up from the letter she is writing. “What can I do for you?” She glances at him long enough to see his wide flit between her and Alexander. 

He swallows, stiffening his spine. “I came to ask if you had considered our...discussion.”

Meg pretends to think for a moment. “No.”

“No?” he asks uncertainly.

“No,” she says again, returning to her letter. 

Angus is quiet for a moment. “No, as in, you haven’t considered it, or no, as in, that is your answer?”

She returns her quill to its inkpot. “No, as in, if you ever threaten me again, Alexander here will give me your head.”

Angus’s fear shines through the indignant mask he attempts to wear. “It was not a threat, my queen--”

“You  _ threatened _ to take my children from me if I did not marry you,” she says coldly. “Do not lie to save your skin.”

Angus opens his mouth, but Alexander stands up. “She’s right,” he says darkly. “You threaten her again, and I will give her yer head.”

Angus opens and closes his mouth for a moment. Then, “I will tell the Council.”

Alexander moves forward slowly. “Now, see, that sounded like a threat…”

Angus stumbles from the room.

“Bastard,” Alexander mutters.

Meg gets up, going to him. “How long do you think before he goes to the Council?”

“If he’s smart? A week or so, enough time te gather the Douglas forces. If we’re lucky, a month. More likely the fool will go te them today.”

“And that’s...not a bad thing?”

“It’s not ideal, but it’s better than waiting fer him te gather Douglas forces. If the Council sides with us, anyone who stands against their decision will be marked a traitor. Angus may have support from some of the Douglases, but not all. Not all of them are as witless fools as he is.”

Meg leans against him, pressing her forehead to his chest. “I just want this to be over.”

He wraps his arms around her. “Soon.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that time TSP gave Meg that terrible ending? Neither do I, because this fic is the only canon I know.

Alexander is mostly right; they pass the night undisturbed, but in the morning, Meg receives a summons to the Privy Council chamber. She touches the place on her chest where her wedding ring hides behind her dress and steels herself, walking down to the chamber.

The other council members are waiting in the chamber, already standing, which Meg takes to be an ill omen. Alexander is standing a little off to the side; he gives the smallest nod.

“Your Grace,” Gavin Douglas says, looking uncomfortable, “my nephew, the Earl of Angus, has come forward with...accusations.”

She says nothing, only looks at him expectantly.

Gavin clears his throat. “Nephew, perhaps you…?”

Angus steps forward with an eager look. “I have seen Alexander Stewart enter the queen’s chambers, where I heard them in congress together. One of the queen’s ladies-in-waiting assures me this happens several times a week, and even showed me a jeweled cross pendant that Lord Stewart gave her, as a token of his...affection.”

_ The jeweled cross. Elizabeth. _ She decides to tuck that away for later.

The nobles glance at each other.

“Is there any truth te these accusations?” Hume asks, clearly not believing it.

“There is,” Meg says, clasping her hands lest they tremble.

The nobles are clearly surprised to hear her confirmation.

“There...is?” Hume asks, stunned.

Alexander stands beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “Isnae a crime fer a man te visit his wife’s bed.”

“His  _ wife?!” _ Hume bellows, eyes wide.

“Wife?” Gavin Douglas repeats sharply. “Do you mean to tell us, Your Grace, that you have taken this man for a husband?”

“I have,” she says calmly. She draws the ring from her breast, holding it aloft for the nobles to see. “I apologize for the secrecy; my intention was to announce the marriage when the Duke of Albany comes from France, at which point I also intended to cede the regency.”

The nobles are perplexed. 

“You intend to cede the regency?” Lord Hepburn asks, brow furrowed.

She bows her head. “The agreement made to this Council was that I would remain regent as long as I was unmarried. I am married now, so it is only fitting that I follow the Council’s requirements and cede the regency to the Duke of Albany.”

“And when is he to arrive?”

“He has not replied,” Alexander says. “But he is aware of the situation. We did not want te say anything while those who wished te take the regency fer themselves were lurking about.”

Angus is red-faced and sweating, clearly not having anticipated this. “But...Your Grace...when I spoke to you--”

“When you threatened me, you mean,” Meg says coolly. “Why don’t you tell the nobles that part of the story, my lord? That you came to me and told me if that if I did not marry you, you were going to ensure I lost custody of my children and the regency.”

There is a rumbling in the room as the nobles turn accusing eyes to Angus. He swallows. “Your Grace--”

“Threatening the queen is very serious,” another Lord Stewart rumbles. “Especially when regency of an infant king is at stake. Did you think we would just  _ let _ you marry the queen and rule Scotland? Eh?”

“Of course not,” Angus says, but he has gone white now. “I only...the queen’s honor--”

“Oh, and I suppose you were going te make an honest woman of her, is that it?” Hume growls. “Being so  _ noble _ and all…”

“It wasn’t...I…”

“You are a witless fool,” Gavin Douglas growls at his nephew. “My lords, I apologize for my nephew.”

“Did you know about this?” Meg demands to know.

Gavin shakes his head. “I did not, Your Grace.”

Meg doesn’t know if she fully believes that, but Hume is already muttering, “Can’t trust a Douglas…”

“Can’t trust a Stewart, either!” Gavin snaps. “This marriage was conducted in secret and without the permission of the Council!”

“And the queen is ceding the regency as per our terms when the Duke of Albany arrives, and he has been sent for,” Lord Hepburn reminds him. “ _ Your _ nephew was lurking about the queen’s bedchamber and threatening her.”

“And if she hadn’t been married to the Stewart bastard?” Gavin demands. 

“Well, we sure wouldn’t be giving the regency to a fucking Douglas in any case,” Hume spits.

“You--”

The fight breaks out almost immediately, men throwing punches and hurling insults. Alexander watches with a grin on his face.

“Alexander!” Meg jerks her head at the brawl. With a sigh, her husband moves forward to break up the fight. 

“I think,” Lord Hepburn says with as much dignity as he can muster, “it would be wise if the Earl of Angus and Gavin Douglas were removed from the Privy Council, and from Edinburgh Castle.”

“Aye,” Hume agrees, spitting.

The others voice their agreement, too. Gavin’s face reddens, but he mutters, “Come on, nephew,” and steers Angus from the room.

“Which now leaves the matter,” Lord Hepburn says, “of the regency.”

Lord Stewart glances at the others. “I see no reason why the queen should not remain regent until the Duke of Albany arrives. That was the agreement, was it not?”

The nobles murmur their own agreement. 

“Then until such time as the Duke of Albany arrives from France, Queen Margaret is still our regent,” Lord Hepburn says, inclining his head. 

Meg can hardly believe her good fortune. The nobles have accepted her marriage to Alexander, Angus has been removed, and she is allowed to remain regent until the Duke gets here, which will be at least another month. 

“Thank you, my lords,” she says sincerely. 

“Your Grace,” Hume says, glancing between her and Alexander, “should the Douglases retaliate…”

“You would have us throw a wappinshaw?” she asks, remembering his suggestion from the first meeting.

“Aye.”

She considers it. The Douglases will probably want to retaliate; satisfying though it may have been to throw out Angus and Gavin, they will not take this well, and neither will their kinsmen. At the very least, having weapons will not hurt them. 

“Very well,” she says at last. “We shall have a wappinshaw, and cannons, too.”

Alexander visibly perks up at this. “Cannons?”

“Cannons,” she confirms. “I trust this suits the Council?”

Their agreement is boisterous. Meg smiles. “Then that is all for today, my lords, thank you.”

Most of the men begin to shuffle out, but Hume lingers, eyeing Alexander. Meg knows the two men are close, and Hume will likely want an explanation for Alexander marrying the queen he once hated. 

“I’ll see you later,” she murmurs to her husband, squeezing his hand before leaving the room. 

For now, she has a rat to deal with. 

.

After ensuring that the boys are well-guarded—just in case Angus and Gavin got any last minute ideas—Meg heads to her rooms. 

All her ladies-in-waiting are gathered, either sewing or playing cards while Negasi plays music. Meg marches up to the table, facing Elizabeth. 

“How much did the Earl of Angus pay to be let into my bedchamber?”

The music stops as all the ladies turn wide eyes to the confrontation. 

Elizabeth sits petrified, her face pale. “Your Grace?” she asks weakly.

“You needn’t bother hiding it. I know the truth.”

Elizabeth sets down her cards with trembling hands. “Your Grace...the earl…”

“Gave you jewelry in exchange for giving him information and letting him into my bedchamber so that he could spy on me,” Meg finishes for her. 

“Everyone knew about Alexander Stewart!” Elizabeth bursts in a sudden show of defiance.

“But it was you who betrayed my secrets,” Meg says. 

“The others--”

“I showed each lady here a different piece of jewelry and said it was from Alexander Stewart,” Meg interrupts. “You were the only one who saw the jeweled cross.”

Elizabeth’s face drains again.

“It may behoove you to know that Alexander Stewart is my husband.” Meg looks at all of her ladies, who are watching her with slack jaws. “It was done in secret lest the Douglases try to take the regency away from me before the arrival of the Duke of Albany. As you can see, I had good cause to worry. I appreciate those of you who knew of his visits to my bed and did  _ not _ betray me. The tokens I showed you earlier are yours to keep as thanks for your discretion.” She turns back to Elizabeth. “As for you, Mistress Elizabeth, I want you packed and out of my sight before the day is done. You can join the earl; he and his uncle Gavin have been exiled from court for spying on and threatening the queen. I hope his gifts were worth it.”

“Your Grace!” Elizabeth begins to sob, but Meg is already striding from the room, too disgusted to look at her traitorous lady-in-waiting for another moment. She instead makes for the training yard, where she finds James practicing at archery. 

“Have you come to join me, Your Grace?” he asks when he sees her. 

“Not today, James. I was hoping we could speak privately.”

“Of course.” He hands his bow to one of the boys, falling into step beside Meg as they walk. 

She spends a long moment trying to find the words to say what she wants to say. “James, you...you were a small child when I first met you. You were like a son to me. Over the years I have watched you grow into a fine young man, and you are not just a son to me; you are also a friend and confidant.”

“I am honored, Meg,” he says quietly, truly looking it. 

She stops, turning to him. “The gossips will soon be wagging their tongues, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.” She takes a deep breath. “I have married Alexander Stewart.”

James stares at her, uncomprehending. “Married…?”

“I know it’s sudden,” she tells him, trying not to let her nerves show. She doesn’t think she’ll be able to bear it if he doesn’t take the news well. She wasn’t lying; James is like a son and friend to her, and she wants him to approve of her choice in husbands. “It’s...well, it’s a bit complicated.” When he still says nothing, she reaches for his hand. “James, I want you to know that this doesn’t change anything. My love for Alexander does not diminish my love for your father, or my love for you.”

“Oh, I know  _ that,” _ James says with a sudden laugh. “Well, that you love me, anyway. And I know you have...a special kind of love for my father’s memory. I know he was not always as loving to you as he could have been,” he adds. “I know you and Alexander have been in love for some time.”

She gapes at her stepson. “You... _ know?” _

“Well, in truth, I always thought he was a bit in love with you,” he admits. “But after that night when the mob broke into the castle...I knew you must love him, too.”

She flushes. “Was it that obvious?”

“To me, it was. It...he makes you happy, Meg.”

She cannot help smiling. “He does.”

“I’m glad you are married.” His smile falters. “But...the regency…”

“It’s alright. I’ve decided to cede to the Duke of Albany.”

James looks confused. “Truly?”

She hesitates. “It’s...complicated. But it was my choice to cede the regency. It was what was best for everyone.”

James squeezes her hand. “You’re a good queen, Meg.”

She smiles. “And you are a good friend. Shall we ride to Holyrood tomorrow and tell your brothers and sisters?”

“I would like that very much.”

.

Though as the day wears on, word spreads so quickly through Edinburgh Castle that Meg wonders if the children at Holyrood will find out before tomorrow. The hall is certainly abuzz with talk when she enters dinner on Alexander’s arm, and the talk turns into an excited babble when he purposely kisses her between courses.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asks with a smile.

“Aye,” he murmurs in her ear. “I like everyone knowing yer mine.”

After dinner, she dismisses her ladies from her chamber, not missing the sly looks they trade one another. Alexander undresses her with far more haste than her ladies; last of all, he removes the leather thong from her neck. 

“Everyone knows now,” he says, taking off the ring and sliding it onto her finger. She hasn’t worn it there since her wedding night. 

_ And God willing, I never have to take it off again. _


	10. Chapter 10

A little over a month passes before they hear from Albany. With Alexander at her side and Angus gone, it is one of the happiest months of Meg’s life. She feels secure in her position, knowing the Privy Council chose to keep her as regent until the duke’s arrival, but more importantly, she knows that Alexander will never let anything happen to her. Not that he ever would have before, but there’s a relief that comes with falling asleep and waking up beside him every night and day. 

He is a good husband to her. Not just because she feels safe around him, but also because of the care he takes with her. He still sits with her in her study and makes love to her at night, but he also spends more time with her, taking all his meals with her and walking and riding with her. He has even started brushing her hair at night, a task that delights Meg because of the care he takes with it. 

He’s started bringing her gifts, too; not the ostentatious sort of gifts James would give her when he wanted to buy her affection, but small trinkets that made him think of her. Most often he brings her ribbons and hairpins, which she is always pleased to wear so that he can take them out later, but one day he brings her a silver pendant with a purple amethyst set in its head. 

“A thistle,” she realizes, touching the silver leaves.

“You may be English, but ye’ve had two Scottish husbands and even more Scottish children,” he tells her, fastening the clasp behind her neck. “Yer Scottish too, now.”

That touches Meg more than she can say. 

More touching than even that, though, is the care Alexander takes towards the children. Not just her two boys, who are still too young to spend much time away from the nursery, but also James’s other children. He’s taken to spending more time with young James, training with him in the yard and riding with him and Meg, and he’s made an effort to get to know the other children, too. They had always been vaguely on his periphery before, but Meg cares for them like her own children, so they become important to Alexander. The boys love him and the girls find him funny, if a bit scary, and Meg’s heart is so full when she watches them together. 

At times like these, she cannot help thinking about the day that she and Alexander will have children of their own. It’s alright if they don’t, of course, as she has more children to care for than most, and she had resigned herself to Young Alexander being her last child; now that she is married and still has plenty of child-bearing years ahead of her, she allows herself to imagine more children. 

The only storm cloud in her otherwise sunny life is a letter from Henry, railing at Meg for marrying “a kilted dog” and having to surrender her regency because of it. 

Meg knows that the years have changed her brother, just as they have changed her. What she had not known until now was that that change had not made him a better person. Gone is the calm and cocky brother she once knew, the dashing rogue who never had a care in the world. Gone is the brother she once loved, and who once loved her. In his place is only a cold and calculating king.

Alexander was right; Henry meant to rule Scotland through her, and now he’s furious that the regency will be given to an ally of the French who will not have England’s best interests at heart. 

The more Meg thinks about it, the angrier it makes her.

“I mean, who does he think he is?!” she rants to Alexander, pacing up and down the solar. “He thinks that he has any  _ right _ to dictate what happens in Scotland?! He thinks that because I am a woman, I can be ruled by him because I have no will of my own?! I’ll show  _ him _ my will if he dares talk to me like that again, bloody  _ sassenach _ king!”

Alexander is watching her with a grin.

“What?” she demands. 

He shakes his head, still grinning. “Yer as prickly as a thistle, woman.”

“Prickly, yes, but I still have my thorns lest Henry forget I was born a Tudor.”

.

Hume oversees the wappinshaw, which Alexander tells Meg is probably the greatest thing she could have done for him. The other man is pleased to have command of such a task, and the other lairds are just as pleased to be part of such an honored tradition.

She doesn’t delude herself into thinking that she has won over Hume, but she believes that the enmity he’d once felt for her has smoldered into a grudging deference. He will never forgive her for being English, but the fact that Alexander married her and that she is planning to cede the regency have clearly changed his opinion of her. The fact that she has given him full charge of the wappinshaw has also helped, as has the fact that she’s willing to bring in cannons. 

There has not been a peep from the Douglases thus far, but Meg knows better than to let her guard down. Even before the question of the regency, the clans have never gotten along, and most of those conflicts were between Stewart and Douglas. If they do not stir up trouble now, they almost surely will later. 

At the very least, gathering weapons seems to make the lairds happy. Losing their king at Flodden and leaving a babe in his stead had shaken them; now, they will not be in danger of losing their king to an attack, from English or Douglas. 

_ As long as Jamie lives. _

He is two and a half now, and Young Alexander a year and a half; older than any of her other children. And they are robust boys, too, round-faced and ruddy-cheeked. She will always be afraid of losing her children, but the older they grow and the stronger they become, the more the fear abates. She may yet see her sons grow into men.

.

At last, a letter arrives from the duke, explaining that he is putting affairs in order in France and will arrive in Leith a week hence on the  _ Reine du Soleil. _

Meg has tried not to be nervous until now; in fact, she’s tried to be optimistic. This is, after all, Alexander’s brother, and hers by law now. He’ll be good to her, and the boys.

...won’t he?

There are so many men in her life who have tried to control her. Her father, by marrying her off to James. James, by patting and placating her and foisting all his children, by her and by other women, upon her. Henry, by offering aid and peace only if she remained unwed and out of the influence of another, less English man. Angus, by trying to wed her and take the regency for the Douglases. Yes, Albany is Alexander’s brother, but what if he is like the other men? 

_ He isn’t. He can’t be. _ Alexander says he is a good man, and she trusts her husband.

Even so, her anxiety only increases with each passing day, and the night before Albany is due to arrive, she has a nightmare just like she did before Flodden; but instead of James’s bloody corpse beside her, she sees Alexander in danger, surrounded by swords.

She wakes with a gasp, trembling.

“What is it?” Alexander asks, sitting up beside her. “A dream?”

“A nightmare. Like the one I had before Flodden.”

He urges her to lean back against his chest, his sure hands smoothing the tremor from her arms. “It was just a dream.”

“But last time I had a dream like this, it came true,” she tries to tell him, her heart pounding against her chest. 

“Love,” he says gently, “last time you were afraid fer yer husband, and fer the war he was waging on England.”

“It wasn’t that, it was...it felt different. I’ve never had a dream that felt like that before. And it  _ did _ come true.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “What was this dream, then?”

She hesitates. “You were in danger.”

His hands still. “I was?”

“Yes. You...you were surrounded by swords.”

He’s quiet for another moment, and then his hands resume their path up and down her arms. “The Douglases hate me, and I’ll wager a fair bit of the other clansmen hate me, too. By marrying you, I made it impossible fer any of them te marry you and take the regency. Did ye see anything else in this dream?”

“No,” she admits.

“I wouldn’t worry, love. I’m always on my guard.”

That is true, and her dream didn’t specify what kind of danger he was in...but all the same, it leaves her so shaken that she is unable to fall back asleep. 

.

As soon as they have broken their fast, Alexander leaves to wait for his brother at Leith and escort him back to the castle. Meg knows it could be hours before the duke’s ship arrives, if it arrives today at all, and though it is less than an hour’s ride to Leith, Meg hates the idea of her husband being away from her for so long after the dream she had had last night. What if something happens on the road? What if something happens in Leith? 

“Everything will be fine,” Alexander tells her before he goes, his hands warm and sure around hers. “I’m armed, my men are armed, and it’s a short ride on a well-traveled road.”

She knows this, and she also knows that she’s being silly. She forces a smile and kisses him. “Be safe,” she can’t help saying.

“And you get some rest.”

She very much doubts she’ll be able to, but she  _ is _ tired, and as the morning wears on, her earlier fear fades into exhaustion. Telling her ladies to rouse her when Alexander’s man rides ahead, she lies down for a nap.

.

Her lady-in-waiting Catherine wakes her some two hours later, a grave look on her face. 

“Your Grace, Lord Stewart and his men were attacked on the road from Leith.”

Meg sits upright, her heart pounding. “Are they alright?”

“I don’t know; your husband sent a rider ahead to gather men.”

Meg is out of bed in a flash. “Help me dress.”

By the time she has dressed and pelted her way down to the yard, the men Alexander sent for are already armed and horsed, thundering out the gate. 

“Who attacked them?” she asks the yard at large.

“Douglases, Yer Grace,” says one of the grooms. “They were waiting fer the Duke of Albany.”

Fear clutches Meg’s heart. Someone here at the castle must have told the Douglases. How else would they know when and where to attack? 

_ And my dream about Alexander came true. He is surrounded by Douglas swords. _

She only prays the men he sent for get there in time.

.

It’s another hour before a sentry shouts that he sees their men returning. Meg, too nervous to have gone inside, waits in the yard, wringing her hands as the gate lifts and fifty horsemen thunder through. 

She is relieved to see Alexander at their head, unharmed save for a scratch upon his cheek. He dismounts, handing the reins to a groom before he crosses the small distance to Meg. 

“They said you were attacked by the Douglases--”

“We were.” He leans down to kiss her, his touch reassuring. “We’re alright. They turned tail and ran, the cowards.”

Meg grips his sleeve. “They might come back--”

“We won’t give ‘em a chance.” He kisses her again and then leads her to a man she does not know, ruffled from the road but looking otherwise very proper. “Meg, this is my brother, John Stewart, the Duke of Albany.”

“Your Grace.” John Stewart, Duke of Albany, bows low as he kisses Meg’s hand. He truly looks nothing like Alexander, grey-haired and apparelled like a true gentleman. He even holds himself differently, looking more like a scholar than a nobleman. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance.” He even sounds different, his gentle Scottish brogue so unlike his brother’s.

“The honor is mine,” she returns, smiling...but it fades just as quickly as it appeared. “I wish you had come to us under better circumstances.”

“So do I,” he admits. “But I was well-protected, thanks to my brother.”

Meg glances up at her husband. “What did you mean by you wouldn’t give the Douglases a chance to come back?”

He hesitates. “We cannae let an attack like this go unanswered. We should ride out to meet them.”

Meg bites her tongue. She doesn’t want him to ride out to face the Douglases, but she also knows that he’s right; they can’t just pretend it never happened. That will be seen as weakness, and they’ll answer for it with Douglases at their doorstep. “When?”

Alexander and his brother exchange a look.

“Today,” Alexander says reluctantly. 

She bites her tongue at that, too. The sooner, she knows, the better. 

But even so, she cannot help remembering her dream.

_ Were the swords in my dream the swords on the road? Or are there still more perils in store for my husband? _

.

The castle is in an uproar as the men prepare to ride out after the Douglases. Meg tries to stay out of the way, both for Alexander’s sake and her own, but this becomes impossible when James bursts into her room, wild-eyed and eager.

“I am to ride with the other men.”

“Oh, James,” she says, heart sinking. 

“I’m fifteen now, a man grown and old enough to fight,” he reminds her, but there is a pleading look on his face, as if he still needs her permission.

“Yes,” she admits, “but…”

“Lord Alexander has said I may be his squire. He said to tell you that it will be safer that way.”

She cannot help but smile at that. Even now, making preparations to attack the Douglases, he is looking out for her. He knows she will be concerned about James, and he is going to look after her stepson since she cannot. “Then go with my blessing.”

He hugs her tightly before dashing off to join the other squires. Meg leans back in her chair and sighs. She had known there would be unrest, but for it to come so suddenly…

Too uneasy to sit still any longer, she heads down to the yard, watching as the men make ready. They are all full of excitement, and in some ways, Meg wonders if they were glad the Douglases struck first, just so they would have an excuse to strike back. 

Alexander finds her at last, and she can see that he is trying to hide his own excitement. 

_ Men and their fighting. _

“You’ll be safe here at the castle,” he tells her, pulling on his riding gloves. 

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” she says quietly.

He cups the back of her head, pressing his forehead to hers. “I will come te you alive. I swear it.”

She breathes deeply. “If you break that oath, I’ll drag you back to life just to send you back myself.”

He grins. “I know.” He kisses her, and one of her braids comes undone. She lifts a hand to her head and sees that he’s tugged one of her ribbons loose, a red, silky string that he holds like a prize. “Fer luck,” he says, tucking it in his breastplate. He mounts his horse, calling to the other men; in a moment, they are all thundering out the gate.

Meg watches them go, an ill feeling settling upon her. 

_ Lord, bring him back to me, _ she prays. 

.

The fighting goes on longer than Meg had expected. She receives word that Angus fled back to his earldom, and the Stewart men are in hot pursuit. Angus is a long way from Edinburgh, and the earl will have the advantage of being on his land, whereas Alexander and his men will be less familiar with the terrain and more prone to ambushes.

“My brother is smarter than he looks, and strong as a bear,” Albany tries to reassure Meg. “You needn’t fret over him.”

Meg is finding that she likes her new brother-in-law. He is mild-mannered and educated, and speaks often of Meg’s sister Mary, with whom he was acquainted at the French court. It feels strange, to talk to someone who probably knows Mary better than she does, but Meg welcomes any distractions from the current set of affairs. 

Albany is a good regent, from what she has observed. She had gracefully stepped down from the regency, but Albany still asks for her opinion and even her suggestions in Privy Council matters, and Meg likes him for that. Many men would be only too happy to shoulder a woman out of place and do a better job than her, but Albany is open about the fact that he has spent more time in France than in Scotland and Meg probably knows the country better than he himself. 

“I’m a Scotsman by birth and title, but in many ways, this land is foreign to me,” he admits to her over dinner. 

Meg shakes her head. “You are...so different from your brother.”

Albany smiles. “I know. And in truth, save for our sire, there is nothing we have in common. Even our mothers are different people. In truth, Your Grace, I had little interest in my father’s younger son by a different woman in a different country. I was already a man with a life of my own by the time I met my brother. Our father died when Alexander was young and I had to come to Scotland to manage his affairs. He had left plenty to my stepmother and younger brother, and I had no wish to disturb them. But Alexander was this...little hellion of a child.”

Meg smiles, trying to picture her husband as a child.  _ Hellion  _ sounds exactly right.

“I couldn’t help but be charmed by him. I always paid him a visit when I came to Scotland. For reasons I’ll never fully understand, he adored me. When I invited him to come visit me in France, he took me up on it--though I fear he despised the place.”

“He did,” she laughs. “He told me about this visit.”

“Ah, well, it’s not for everyone, I suppose. Just as Scotland is not for everyone, either. In any case, despite our many differences, we are very fond of one another, and I am glad to see him so happily married.”

“How do you know he is happily married?” Meg teases. “He rode off to battle the same day you arrived in Scotland.”

“How can he not be? He has loved you for a long time, Your Grace, and it is clear to me that you love him just as deeply.”

“A long time?” she repeats, confused.

Albany gives her a look of polite puzzlement. “Well, several months, at least. His letters were all of you. Perhaps he did not say the word ‘love,’ but it was clear to me all the same.”

Meg flushes. She had not realized that Alexander spoke of her in this way to his brother, or for so long, and she says as much to his brother now.

Albany smiles. “There is very little my brother and I keep from each other, especially where matters of the heart are concerned. If I am right, this business with the Douglases will end quickly so he can hurry home to you.”

Meg cannot help blushing and smiling. She raises her glass in a toast. “To Alexander’s swift return.”

“To Alexander’s swift return.”

.

But Alexander does not have a swift return. 

It has been nearly a month since the men rode out when they return to Edinburgh. In that time, Meg has made the startling--or perhaps, given her history, not that startling--discovery that she is with child. She is still early on, but she has been pregnant six times, and knows the signs now better than most. 

She’s excited to share the news with Alexander. Though they hadn’t talked much about it in the brief time they’ve been married, Meg had seen his eagerness when she’d asked if he wanted children. How happy will he be to come back from battle only to find that he’s going to be a father?

But as the men in the yard dismount, Meg cannot find Alexander. She searches the faces of all the men, looking for a mop of black hair and a coarse black beard, but she does not see him anywhere.

And then James is standing in front of her with a wretched face and she knows what he is about to say before he has even said it. It’s the same look Alexander wore that day at Flodden, and she knows what it means.

“No,” she whispers.

“Meg--”

“No.”

James is holding back tears. “We lost him during the battle. We searched for three days, but we could not find him.”

Hume is at her side now. “He may yet be alive,” he says with an uncharacteristic softness. “We searched the bodies a hundred times over and he wasn’t among them.”

“But you couldn’t find him after the battle,” she manages around the lump in her throat. 

“We could not, Your Grace. I’m sorry.” 

Black pinpricks fill her vision. “I’m going to faint,” she announces in a faraway voice, and then does.


	11. Chapter 11

“You must try not to worry, Your Grace,” the physician tells her over and over...but how can Meg do anything but worry? Alexander is missing, dead or alive, and with each passing day, it seems less and less likely that he’s alive. 

The physician had ordered her to remain in bed, concerned for the child she’s carrying. Meg is concerned, too; the first three months are always the easiest to lose a babe, so they say, and she has received a nasty shock.

_ Please don’t leave me, _ she begs the child inside her.  _ You are all I have of him. _

She knows she should rest and relax for the child’s sake, and she’ll never forgive herself if she works herself up into harming the baby’s health, but how can she rest and relax at a time like this? It might even be easier if she knew for certain that Alexander is dead, because at least then she wouldn’t have to toss and turn and wonder if she’ll ever see him again. 

But to give him up for dead when he might still be alive…

Her ladies try to distract her when they can, playing cards with her or sharing the court gossip, but it’s all so tiring and menial to Meg. Sometimes the children will come visit her and play in her room, but the physician never lets them stay for long because he wants Meg to rest. 

So she lies in her bed and stares at the canopy and wonders if she will ever see her husband again.

_ It’s not fair. _

She had been widowed once, and she knows that death does not discriminate, but why did it have to be so  _ soon? _ She and Alexander were only wed for a month before he left. 

_ And now he has left me with a child that may never know its father. _

She can’t stand that thought. It was bad enough that Jamie and Young Alexander would grow up without knowing their father, but to have it happen to a third child?

_ Perhaps I am cursed. _

It certainly feels that way when she passes her twenty-fifth birthday on bedrest, unable to so much as relieve herself without her ladies flocking to help her. She puts on a brave face for the children, who all come to wish her well and offer small trinkets that she has no doubt the duke obtained for them, but as soon as Albany has ushered the last child from the room, tears spring to her eyes.

“Your Grace, you mustn’t fret,” he soothes, taking the seat beside her bed. He knows about the baby, as, unfortunately, do several others. She does not recall it, but apparently while Hume was carrying her to her room after she’d fainted in the courtyard, she’d asked if the baby was alright. She hates that others should know before Alexander.

_ But he may never know at all. _

“How can I not fret?” she asks his brother now. “No one knows where my husband is, if he’s dead or alive, if he received a Christian burial or if he’s fettered in some Douglas prison--”

“It will not do for you to dwell on these thoughts,” Albany says sternly but no less kindly. “You must think of the child.”

“I am always thinking of the child. But thinking of the child makes me think of the father he might never know.”

Albany hesitates. “Your Grace, I am...reluctant to tell you this, but...the king’s son, the Earl of Moray, has decided to return to Moray to search for my brother. Lord Hume is to go with him, and they are to bring fifty men.”

Meg sits up straight. “Do you think they will find anything?

“I don’t know. But I have hope. My brother is a fighter, stronger than most...and I cannot imagine his pride would let him die by a Douglas’s hand.”

Meg smiles despite herself. No, she cannot imagine it either. Alexander, her sweet, stubborn husband, would sooner fall on his own sword than give a Douglas the satisfaction. 

“When do they leave?”

“Today, Your Grace.”

“So soon?” she asks, surprised.

He bows his head. “They have been discussing it for some time now, and did not wish to disturb you. I hesitated in even mentioning it to you, but I hoped it might...I don’t know, lift your spirits, if only a little.”

“It has. Thank you,” she says sincerely, taking his hand. “Knowing they will be looking for him...it brings me some peace.”

Albany smiles kindly at her. “You must rest now, Your Grace. You’ve had a long day.” He gets up, leaving Meg alone in her room. She rolls over onto her side and sleeps better than she has in days.

.

The hope that Alexander might be found lifts Meg’s spirits so much that the physician says she can leave her bed. And just in time, too, for there are Christmas celebrations to plan.

Not that Meg feels particularly like celebrating when her husband may or may not be dead, but at least it gives her something to do while she waits to hear from the search party. 

With the exception of most of the Douglases, who have tactfully decided to avoid court for the time being, most of the nobles will be coming to Edinburgh Castle. Meg does not try to be as festive as last year, but she does see the halls properly decked and makes arrangements for suitable entertainment. The children will at least have a good time, as they should. Even Jamie, just a few months away from turning three, will have a better grasp of the season this year. 

As Christmastide approaches, the nobles begin to gather at Edinburgh Castle, offering Meg and Albany their thanks for their hospitality and their condolences for Alexander. 

She tries not to let it affect her, but after hearing so many people murmur their sorrow for her loss, their promises to pray for her, she cannot help but begin to wonder if there is really any hope of James and Hume recovering Alexander. If he was alive, surely they’d know by now, and if he’s dead, it’s likely he was buried with the other men. If James and Hume do find him, it will be in a mass grave, where they’ll dig him out and carry his body home for a proper burial.

_ James and Hume know he’s dead. Everyone knows he’s dead. I’m the fool who’s been holding out hope. Albany only said it to lift my spirits.  _

She cannot blame her brother-in-law, but neither can she stand to look at him anymore, knowing that he gave her false hope. So once the Christmas celebrations have begun, she leaves the hosting to Albany and takes to her rooms once more. During the day, she has peace, left alone to rest, but at night, she can hear the music from the feast. She remembers last Christmas, when she’d been eager to entertain the lairds and keep the peace. She remembers Alexander teaching her dirty words in Gaelic, and how the lairds had roared with laughter to hear their queen speak thus. 

She cannot help crying when she thinks back to last Christmas. How happy she’d been, even if she hadn’t realized it yet. God, what she would not give to go back.

.

Albany comes to call on her the day before Twelfth Night. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks solicitously.

“Poorly.”

“Because of the child?”

Meg sighs. “The child. And its father.”

Albany takes her hand. “Your Grace, I have spoken to your physician, and we believe it might do you good to attend the festivities tomorrow.”

Meg closes her eyes. “I couldn’t possibly.”

“It is not the child that ails you, Your Grace. Your grief is understandable...but why not let your friends comfort you? This burden is not easy to bear alone.”

When she says nothing, he continues, “At the very least, sit through some of the entertainment. Your absence has been much remarked upon. People are beginning to worry for their queen.”

“Their queen is freshly widowed for the second time in a little over a year.”

“We don’t know that.”

She shakes her head, feeling the first tendrils of anger creep into her heart. “How could he possibly be alive? James and Hume set out over a month ago, and the battle was nearly a fortnight before that. Six weeks Alexander has been missing, and yet you come to me with this false hope--”

“It is not a false hope, Your Grace,” Albany says with a steely note in his voice. “It is the hope of a man who loves his brother very much.”

She lowers her head, feeling ashamed. Of course this is hard on Albany, too. He is Alexander’s brother, and has known him longer. She has been selfish in her grief.

Albany sighs. “I know that you love my brother, Your Grace, and I cannot begin to imagine the pain you are in. But you do not have to go it alone.”

She nods meekly. “I will attend as much as I am able,” she finally says. 

“That is all I ask.” 

.

She does attend the festivities on the twelfth and final day of Christmas. Every eye is upon her as she enters the great hall, and though most of them are laden with sympathy, she senses real warmth behind those gazes. The nobles kiss her hands and murmur their happiness at seeing her, and though it tires her, Meg smiles and thanks them.

The Master of Revels has organized a day full of plays both holy and farcical, puppet shows and dancing masques. Jamie sits on Meg’s lap through much of it, shouting his delight at the spectacles. Everyone smiles to see their little king so happy, and even Meg cannot help but smile at his joy. 

They are watching a mock bear-baiting, with a fool dressed as a bear and the children of court beating him with cloth sticks, when an attendant leans in between Meg and Albany and murmurs, “Your Graces, you should come outside.”

“Why?” Meg asks, glancing at her brother-in-law.

“I cannot say, I was only asked to fetch you immediately.”

Albany gives her a curt nod; she hands Jamie to his nurse and follows the attendant out the hall, her curiosity getting the better of her.

There is a light dusting of snow on the ground and in the air, and dismounting in the courtyard are fifty men. Meg recognizes James and Hume…

...and Alexander.

There are cuts dusting his cheeks and forehead, but he looks otherwise unhurt. When he sees her, a slow, happy smile stretches across his face. 

Meg finds herself suddenly in front of him, though whether that was from him coming to her or her coming to him, she knows not. All she knows is that she’s gripping his arms, unable to believe he’s here, standing in front of her.

“You’re alive.”

“I am,” he says, and those two words fill her with unparalleled joy.

“Are you hurt?” she asks, touching his face.

“Not anymore.”

“Good.” She slaps him across the face. 

Alexander’s mouth falls open in shock as he touches his cheek. “What the hell, woman?!”

“I thought you were dead!” she shouts, a sudden fury rising up in her. “I wept for you! I  _ mourned _ you! I thought you were dead and I wanted to die! I--”

Alexander silences her with a kiss. She beats at his shoulders, but he keeps kissing her until she finally melts against him. She kisses back at last, her happiness at seeing him, her relief at feeling him in her arms, overcoming the anger and fear and sorrow she’d felt for the last six weeks.

“You kept me alive,” he murmurs at last. He pulls something out of his breastplate, and she sees a red ribbon that looks as if it’s seen better days.

_ My ribbon.  _

“Alexander Stewart,” she says with a steadiness she doesn’t feel, “I believe you’re getting soft on me.”

He grins. “Maybe I am at that.”

She rises up to kiss him again. “Come, husband,” she murmurs. “Let me give you a proper homecoming.”

.

The cuts on Alexander’s face are nothing compared to the cuts littering the rest of his body, but this does not stop him from making up for all the weeks he was apart from Meg. He is full of passion, as is she, but she can tell he’s restraining himself. 

“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she tells him, but he is still almost painfully gentle with her. Meg ends up rolling them over and riding him with far less gentleness, her desperation overcoming her concern. 

After, when they lie in a tangle of limbs, his hand resting on the slight swell of her belly, he tells her everything.

He’d seen Angus flee the battle and had chased after him. The coward drew him far from the battle, and when he realized he was still being pursued, he finally set his handful of men on Alexander. He took down three of the five, but the fourth knocked the wind from him, and the fifth knocked him out cold. 

He’d woken almost two weeks later in the Greyfriars monastery in Elgin, and he’d passed in and out of consciousness in the weeks following. Somehow or other they’d figured out who he was and sent word to Darnaway Castle; by the time he was well enough to travel, James and Hume were already on the way.

“Well you scared the shit out of me,” she accuses, and Alexander laughs.

“I won’t do it again.” 

She traces the line of a recent cut, one that’s mostly healed but looks like it would have been nasty when he first got it. “Do you think it’s over? Between us and the Douglases?”

“Fer now. But it’s never really over between our clans. Give it time and there’ll be another battle.”

“I forbid you to fight in it.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.”

Meg sits up. “If you leave me for that long again--”

He pulls her down beside him. “Never again. I promise.” He runs his fingers through her hair. “I missed you, Meg,” he says softly. “Thinking about you was the only thing that kept me going.”

She presses her forehead to his. “You have to be more careful, Alexander. You have a wife and a child now. You cannot be as reckless as you used to be.”

“I know. And I won’t be.” His hand caresses her belly again. “I intend te see this one live a long and happy life with children of their own.” 

Meg kisses him, and marvels, not for the first time since his return, how fortunate she is to have such a husband.

.

The final celebrations of Twelfth Night are all the merrier because of Alexander’s return. It feels as though a thousand toasts are raised to him, and to the brave men who returned north to find him. Though Meg leads some of these toasts herself, she personally thanks James and Hume for recovering her husband.

“‘Twas nothing, Your Grace,” Hume blusters, but tears well in James’s eyes at her gratitude. 

Albany is also emotional at the return of his brother, whom he had barely seen after arriving in Scotland. They talk through much of the feast, recounting old memories and discussing mutual acquaintances. Meg is content to sit and listen, basking in Alexander’s presence.

When they think she isn’t listening, she hears Alexander murmur to his brother, “Thank you fer looking after her.”

“I will always look after you, Alexander, and that means looking after your wife and child.”

“You approve?”

“I cannot think of a woman better suited to you.”

Meg turns to Alexander, unable to help herself. “What are you two talking about?”

“You,” he says plainly, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles. “My brother says we are well-suited.”

“Do you agree?”

“Nae,” he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. “I don’t think I deserve you.”

She presses her forehead to his. “You are a good man, Alexander Stewart. Even if you are a pig.”

He chuckles, kissing her. 

“Are they always like this?” she hears Albany ask Hume.

“Your Grace, ye have  _ no idea.” _

.

With the Douglases defeated and Angus hiding out in England, peace comes to Scotland once more. Even so, Meg is privately glad that she does not have to rule as regent anymore, for as the child within her grows, her thoughts turn more and more from ruling and more and more towards her family. 

April comes upon them, during which time Jamie turns three and Young Alexander turns two. Meg spends their birthdays holding back tears, which she blames on her pregnancy...but in truth, the tears have nothing to do with the child inside her and everything to do with the four that she buried. She mourns the children that died, and she celebrates their memories by showing her sons all the love their siblings were never able to receive. 

She does sometimes fear that this child will be like those four children, that they will not survive the cradle, either. But she decides that she would rather have a child for a short time than not have a child at all, and even if this does become the fifth child she buries, at least she will have had them for a time.

.

On a sweltering day at the end of July, Meg gives birth to her seventh child.

Alexander, her dear, sweet, devoted husband, spends the entire labor pacing up and down the hall outside. Every once in a while he calls through the door to see if she’s alright, and each time is met with an even more vehement threat of castration. He wisely responds with, “Right, carry on.”

At last, at long last, the babe slips from between her legs into the waiting hands of the midwife, its cries filling the room.

“A boy!” the midwife declares. “A healthy, bonny baby boy!”

Alexander demands to be let in from the other side of the door, but the women do not let him in until Meg has delivered the afterbirth and been cleaned up. Only when she is reclining in her bed and the sheets have been bundled up do they let in her impatient husband, who crosses the room in two strides. All that impatience dies when he sees the baby in Meg’s arms.

“We have a son,” she tells him, soft and tender now that the labor is over.

Alexander sits gingerly beside her, and she is amazed to see him blinking back tears. “A son.”

“Would you like to hold him?”

He sucks in a breath. “He’s so small.”

“You won’t break him. Here.” She eases the baby into his arms, showing him how to support the little head.

Alexander blinks back more tears. “He’s beautiful.”

She leans her head against his shoulder. “Isn’t he?” She touches the baby’s impossibly small fingers, which wrap around her own finger instinctively. “I was thinking we could name him Robert. For your ancestor.”

He breathes deeply. “Aye, that’s a fine name.” He lowers his head, kissing her gently. “This is the happiest day of my life, Meg.”

She smiles softly. “I hope it will be the first of many.”


	12. Chapter 12

_ Nine Years Later _

“Your Grace?”

Meg looks up from Mary’s latest letter, seeing her maid standing in the doorway. “What is it, Nan?”

“The Duke of Albany is here, Your Grace.”

“Does Lord Stewart know?”

“I tried to tell him, but, er…”

The shouting from the corridor is all the answer Meg needs.

“Thank you, Nan, I’ll tell him.” She sets aside the letter, moving out of her room and into the corridor. 

The children are playing some type of game, running up and down the corridors and screaming. Meg finds the source of their screams when Hume leaps out from behind a tapestry, roaring ferociously as he blocks Davie and Marjorie’s path. The children shriek in delight, turning tail and running in the opposite direction.

“Hume, where is my husband?” Meg asks the man as he starts to give chase. 

“Cannae say, Meg!”

She smiles, making her way down the stairs. Jamie and Alex pelt past her, shouting, “Pardon, Lady Mother!” as they take the stairs two at a time. 

As they’ve gotten older, the Privy Council has gotten more lenient about letting them stay with their mother and siblings at Holyrood. The concerns that made them order their staying at Edinburgh Castle--the boys’ health, and Meg’s connections to England--have abated over the years, as the boys have shown themselves to be healthy, hearty lads, and Meg’s disdain for her brother has become apparent to all. 

As the boys have gotten older, too, John, Duke of Albany, has begun to spend more and more time abroad with his wife and her family, necessitating a need to leave the boys in the care of their mother the queen and their stepfather, Albany’s brother and appointed representative. John always claims his visits overseas are on business, but everyone knows he prefers France to Scotland, and as soon as Jamie reaches his majority in three years, they have no doubt the duke will be back in France permanently. 

When she reaches the second floor, she finds Alexander carrying Robert and William under each arm, hauling them as if they were no more than sacks of grain. Little Elizabeth is wrapped around his leg, all three children giggling as their father carries them easily.

“Your brother is here,” she tells her husband. 

“Uncle John!” Robert and William shout, and Alexander drops them gracelessly to the ground so that they can scamper off to greet their uncle. Elizabeth unfurls herself, tripping after her brothers.

“Boys, mind your sister!” Meg calls after her sons, and they double back to pick up the two-year-old and carry her down the stairs.

Elizabeth is the youngest of their five children, and God willing, it will stay that way. The birth had been a nightmare, and Meg had been plagued with reminders of her own mother’s final labor during those long, bloody hours. Alexander had been at her side through all of it, and though he wouldn’t say it at the time, she knows he was just as afraid as she was.

She and Elizabeth had survived, thank God, but the midwife had told them in no uncertain terms that another birth would kill Meg. So, Meg takes the old precautions again, drinking bitter tea to make sure she does not conceive. Truth be told, after giving birth eleven times, she is relieved not to have to again, and even more relieved that Alexander also does not want her to go through it again. 

He turns to his wife now, kissing her before they head down the stairs at a much slower pace than their children. “How’d ye know he was here before I did?”

“I believe Nan tried to tell you, but was deterred by all the…”

A roar punctuated by shrill screams fills the air.

“She’s gotta get used te the noise if she’s gonna live here.”

“I have no doubt you and the children will do a fine job acclimating her.”

When they reach the drawing room, they find John with Robert, William, and Elizabeth, but Meg can immediately tell that something is off. His smile is much too forced, his whole countenance heavy. 

“Boys, take Elizabeth upstairs and join your brothers and sister,” Meg orders them. 

“But--”

“Do as yer mother says,” Alexander tells them. Robert sighs, picking up his little sister and leading William back up the stairs.

“What is it?” Meg asks her brother-in-law.

John swallows. “My wife has fallen ill. They do not think she will live. I must return to France immediately.”

“I’m so sorry,” Meg murmurs, horrified. She knows very little of her sister-in-law. They had married when Anne was a child; as her father had passed away a few years before and John was the closest male relative, the marriage had been more an official act of guardianship than anything. Even so, Meg knows he and his wife grew to care for each other, and his leaving her in France had been a difficult decision, but he had dared not risk her already delicate health by traveling overseas to a land as unforgiving as Scotland. 

And now she’s dying anyway. 

Poor, poor John. 

“I do not know how long I’ll be away. I will write often, but…”

But it all depends on how long Anne lives. 

“Alexander, I will trust you, as always, to act as my representative in all things,” John says, and Alexander nods.

“Of course.”

John gets unsteadily to his feet, clasping his brother’s shoulder. The two men share a look, nodding, before John takes Meg’s hand. She kisses his cheek, squeezing his shoulder. “You will both be in our prayers.”

“Thank you.”

They see him to the door, where he mounts his horse slowly, offering a weak smile before he turns and sets off for the road.

“Poor John,” Meg murmurs. “Poor Anne.”

“Always thought he’d leave her a widow,” Alexander muses. “He’s so much older than her.” Old enough to be her father, in fact.

“Her health has always been bad, though.” She shakes her head. “Poor Anne,” she says again.

Alexander wraps an arm around her, turning them back inside the house. “He’ll be gone fer a while.”

“Do you think he’ll go back to France, after Jamie comes of age? I mean, if he has no wife to tend to…”

“Honestly? I’d be surprised if he comes back te Scotland at all.”

Meg raises her eyebrows. “Really?”

“Aye. He has no great love fer this place. France is his home. Even when Anne is gone, it’ll be more his home than Scotland ever was or will be. Jamie will be fifteen in three years, and I’ve always managed well while John was abroad; my brother will hem and haw with excuses until there’s no point in his coming back.”

Meg considers this. John  _ does _ prefer being abroad to being here, and his visits overseas have grown lengthier and more frequent over the years. Why should he hurry back when everything is going so well? Scotland is at peace, the Council are all content with Alexander representing his brother’s interests, and Jamie will soon be old enough to rule on his own. This may well be the last they see of John.

“Are you sure you can manage the regency for three years?” she asks wryly. 

“The regency, I can manage. Dealing with the nobles, on the other hand…” He shakes his head. “It should be you, ruling as regent.”

Meg doesn’t quite know what to say to that. He isn’t  _ wrong, _ exactly; she is the king’s mother, and she is  _ here, _ whereas her brother-in-law is increasingly not. And though Alexander always speaks for both her and John and is always working in Jamie’s best interests, her husband has a way of losing his temper with the other nobles, and afterwards it is usually Meg who has to make a conciliatory gesture with them. She isn’t so modest as to think her husband and his brother are truly better regents than she is, but she must be realistic about the situation. John is the preferred regent, and Alexander the preferred representative of said regent. Meg is just...well…

An Englishwoman.

She knows it will be alright. If Alexander can reign in his temper, the next three years will not be too hard. And then Jamie will be king and the Privy Council will be what he makes it. 

It’s so hard to imagine her son as king. She still has trouble seeing him as a growing boy on his way to manhood, and not the red-faced little baby they’d put in her arms twelve years ago. To imagine him sitting the throne…

The throne…

She can see it so clearly. Her boy on the throne...and behind him, Angus, a knife pointed at her son’s throat.

“Meg?”

She blinks back tears, realizing Alexander is looking at her with alarm. She shakes her head, her vision swimming in and out. “Angus…”

“What about him?” When she doesn’t answer right away, Alexander takes her by the shoulders, lowering his head to look directly at her. “What’s going on, Meg?”

“I saw him,” she says, and she wants to explain, but she doesn’t think she can. “It was like...those nightmares I had, before Flodden, before you were attacked on the road from Leith. But it was waking, and...Jamie was on the throne, and Angus stood behind him with a knife.”

Alexander looks troubled. “Ye just...saw it? Just like that?”

She nods, slowly coming back to her surroundings. She can still hear the children screaming upstairs with Hume, their feet pounding across the floor. Jamie is safe here, with her, and as far as anyone knows, Angus is still in England trying to court her brother’s favor.

But hadn’t her dreams tried to warn her before? And hadn’t they been right? What if this, whatever it is, is another warning? 

“We have to protect Jamie,” she says, suddenly resolute. 

“We always do. He’s fine, love.”

“That’s what you and James said when I had those dreams,” she reminds him. “And remember what happened?”

She can see the flicker of doubt in Alexander’s eyes. Once was a coincidence, twice was hard to dismiss, and now…

“Angus is still in England,” he says at last. “And we’re not letting him anywhere near Jamie.”

“No,” she agrees. “But...something is going to happen. I can feel it.”

He hesitates, and she thinks he’s going to gently tell her it was just a fancy...but then he says, “I’d be a fool not te see that you have some...gift that lets ye see these things. We will take more care with Jamie until we know what this means. But I promise you, Meg, nothing will happen to our boy as long as I draw breath.”

She breathes deeply, nodding. “I know.” And she does. Alexander has always been there to protect Jamie, both as his king and now as his stepfather. He will not let harm come to him. 

But it doesn’t mean people like Angus won’t try. 

A shout from the stairs has Meg and Alexander turning their attention back to their children, and a moment later, they are surrounded.

“Where is our Uncle John?!”

“He had to go back to France for a while,” Meg says, pasting a calm smile on her face. 

“Aww.”

“But you know what they say,” Alexander says, crouching down. “When the cat’s away…”

“The mice will play?” Alex suggests.

_ “The bears will getcha.” _

The children shriek in delight as Alexander chases them back into the house. Meg watches them, smiling. Yes, her children,  _ all _ her children will be safe. She and Alexander will see to that.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed there is an end in sight - still needs some tweaking but I hope to have those chapters up soon!

As it turns out, Angus  _ is _ planning something. 

It’s barely been a fortnight since John left when James comes galloping up to Holyrood, his face pale and his horse lathered.

Meg runs out to meet her stepson. “What’s happened?”

“It’s the Douglases,” he manages, breathing hard from the gallop. “They’re trying to take the regency from Albany.”

“On what grounds?!”

“His voyages abroad. They say that while he’s gone, he always leaves his brother to rule for him, and that Alexander is ruled by his wife. They say that the queen still rules in Scotland.”

Meg purses her lips. “I see.”

“They think that the Privy Council is too heavy on Stewarts and Arrans and Hamiltons, and there are not enough men representing the Douglases.”

“If there aren’t, it’s their own fault for rebelling,” she seethes. 

James looks worried. “Meg...I think this is serious. It’s not just talking. The Earl of Angus has been living at the English court with your brother, and they say he has never forgiven you for marrying Albany’s younger brother.”

That much is true; even if Henry’s terse letters, which are few and far between, weren’t a solid indicator of his feelings on the matter, Mary and Catherine have told Meg plainly of his anger at Meg’s marriage. It matters little to her; even if Henry was incensed enough to march up to Scotland, he’d have the French to contend with, and she knows even he isn’t foolish enough to risk that again. She says as much to James, but he doesn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe your brother wouldn’t march up here directly...but if he was quietly arming and outfitting Douglas men…”

“He wouldn’t,” she says, but she realizes James could be right. Henry would never risk the wrath of a Scottish-French alliance, but if he was quietly slipping funds to the Douglases to help them stage a coup…

“Come inside,” she says, leading her stepson into the house. She takes him up to her study, avoiding the children so they don’t see their brother and become distracted, and sends for Alexander. She has James relate to Meg everything he told her, and as he does, Alexander’s expression gradually darkens.

“Yer sure about this?” he asks when James has finished.

“Yes. Gavin Douglas invited me to sup with him, and there was a whole assembly of Douglas men. I think they thought because I’m the Earl of Moray and my mother was old Angus’s mistress and mother to his daughter that I would be sympathetic to their cause.”

“And did you tell them you were not?” Alexander asks.

James shakes his head. “I didn’t say anything. I just took my leave and left, and rode straight here.”

“Good. You must let them think that you  _ are _ sympathetic te their cause,” Alexander tells him. “You are James’s son, and older than Jamie; let them think that yer tired of being the bastard half-brother.”

James looks askance. “But I’m not--”

“No, but they must think that,” Meg says softly, understanding her husband’s plan. “It will be more believable if they think you’re acting out of your own interests. Let them think they are using you. And all the while, you will be helping us.”

James understands now. “I have no great talent for deception...but I will do my best. For the king.”

She takes his hands. “Thank you, James.”

He inclines his head. “Of course.” He glances at Alexander. “Take care of my brothers and my stepmother.”

Alexander nods. “Always.”

Taking a deep breath, James kisses Meg’s cheek and leaves her, heading down to make the ride back. Meg turns to Alexander. “Well.”

“I’m going te Edinburgh Castle, call the Privy Council. You must stay here with the children.”

“Alexander,” she asks softly, “do you think...they’ll do it? Take away the regency?”

“Best they can do is put the city under siege and declare an end te my brother’s regency, but it won’t last long.” He rubs his chin. “I’m gonna write te my brother, see if he can convince the French king te send men.”

“Should we send Jamie away?”

“We can’t,” he tells her gently. “The Douglases are trying te argue that you are the shadow regent. If we move Jamie without the Council’s permission, the other nobles will see it as a sign that you do not abide by the Council’s decisions.”

He’s right, and she knows he’s right, but the thought of keeping her son here in plain sight when the Douglases are trying to take him from her…

“It won’t come te that,” he says, seeing where her thoughts are turning. “They are not getting their hands on Jamie, I promise you.”

She nods, but Meg cannot help but remember another boy king who never lived to see his coronation, he and his brother torn from their mother and uncle and locked up in a tower they would never leave. 

But that was different. The Princes in the Tower were killed to make way for their uncle. If Jamie and Alex die, then John becomes king, then Alexander, and then their sons. The Douglases are nowhere near the line of succession. No, if they want Jamie, it won’t be to kill him, it will be to rule through him.

Alexander pulls her against his chest, his heartbeat sure and steady against her ear. “Jamie will be alright.”

“I know.” And she does. “When will you go?”

“Today. The sooner, the better.”

She sighs. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’ll come stay the night here whenever I can, and I’ll double the guards. In the meantime, do not leave Holyrood, and only let in the people you trust most.”

_ The people she trusts most _ \--a circle that grows smaller and smaller by the hour. 

.

For two weeks, Alexander resides mostly at Edinburgh Castle, meeting with the Privy Council to try to deal with the Douglases. He spends the night at Holyrood when he can, always weary from a long day of politics. 

“It’s not going well,” he tells Meg bluntly. “It seems like every day a new laird is declaring fer the Douglases. If yer brother isn’t funding them, I don’t know who is.”

She wishes she knew what to say, or do. She has written to Henry, trying not to sound accusatory and merely curious as to whether he knows anything, but he has not responded, nor does Meg think he ever will. 

Alexander has written to his own brother, but that reply will be a long time coming, and aid from the French may be even longer in coming. 

Meg has been apprehensive for some time, but now she starts to feel afraid. If Henry and the Douglases are taking control of the Privy Council while John is still in France and not heeding his appointed representative…

And then comes the day Alexander and Hume come galloping up to Holyrood, grave looks on their faces. 

Meg sends the children up to the nursery at once, knowing that whatever news her husband bears will not be good. 

“What happened?” she asks, meeting the two men at the door.

“The Privy Council no longer recognizes my brother as the regent,” Alexander says tersely. “And since they no longer recognize him as regent--”

“They don’t recognize you as his representative,” she says quietly. “But then, who…?”

“Angus!” Hume seethes. “They voted te make that little girl the regent.”

Meg grips Alexander’s arm. “No.”

“Aye.” He looks pained. “I’m sorry, Meg, I did what I could--”

“I know.” And she does. She knows he wouldn’t give up without a fight. 

“They’ll be coming for Jamie soon te take him te Stirling,” he tells her. “We have te get him away from here, but we have te do it without getting the little ones involved.”

Her throat tightens. “What do you mean?”

“They cannae travel,” Hume says gently. “Not without slowing us down so that the Douglases capture us anyway.”

“But I can’t take Jamie and leave the others behind,” Alexander points out. “I don’t trust the bastards with my family.”

Meg grips the thistle pendant at her neck, wondering what they can do and how quickly they can do it. Is this what her grandmother felt like all those years ago? Having to give up her son to a regent she did not trust?

_ But she didn’t give up her son, _ Meg remembers. 

“What if…” she says slowly, the half-formed plan coming together piece by piece, “we gave them a different boy?”

Alexander and Hume are staring at her.

“What d’you mean?”

She paces up and down the hall, thinking. “When my grandfather King Edward died and his son, the Prince of Wales, was seized on the road from Ludlow, my grandmother took her children to sanctuary. When Gloucester sent for her younger son, she sent in his place a servant boy, and no one but my family ever knew the truth.” She looks up at Alexander and Hume, who are watching her with interest. “The Douglases don’t know what Jamie looks like. But James does. James will be there, playing the part of a man loyal to the Douglases.”

“So you want te send a different boy te Stirling?” Alexander asks in disbelief. “That’s...risky.”

“Not as risky as sending the  _ real _ Jamie,” she points out. “Even if they find out, at least it will buy us some time.”

“So who are we going te send in his place?” Hume wants to know. 

She takes a deep breath. “We’ll send Alex.”

“What?” Alexander asks in disbelief.

“Hear me out. The boy we send will have to look enough like Jamie, will have to look  _ familiar _ enough that only those closest to him will know it’s the wrong brother. The boy we send will have to be able to pretend he is Jamie. No one knows Jamie better than Alex. They’re only a year apart, they look alike, they act alike, and Alex knows things about his brother that no other boy would know. And...if we send a different boy and Angus learns the truth, what’s to stop him from killing that boy? But if it’s the king’s heir…”

“Even Angus wouldn’t be that stupid,” Alexander finishes reluctantly. “Aye. It’s still risky, Meg.”

“I know. Believe me, I know. And if James wasn’t there, I wouldn’t consider it. But I know he will not let any harm come to his brother. I believe they can keep up the ruse long enough to at least give us a headstart.”

Alexander and Hume glance at each other, coming to a silent sort of agreement.

“Alright,” Alexander decides. “I’ll take Jamie and raise whatever army I can. Hume, I want you te stay with Meg and the bairns; once it’s safe, get them somewhere safe.”

“They’ll be safe at Fast Castle.”

“Good. We have te move quickly; those Douglas bastards will be right behind us.”

.

While Alexander and Hume make the necessary preparations, Meg sits down with Jamie and Alex in their room and explains everything to them. She knows her sons are not little children anymore, and that they are wiser and more mature than most children their age because of their nearness to the throne, but she still fears that this may be too much for them. It’s almost too much for  _ her, _ in truth. 

When she finishes, they trade looks.

“Alex?” Jamie asks, brow furrowed.

Alex hesitates. “I will do it. For my brother the king.”

Meg could cry. “You will be safe,” she promises, taking his hand in hers. “The Douglases will not hurt you. And James will be there to look after you.”

He nods, but he still looks troubled.

“We will not leave you there long. Things are...difficult right now, but once we have mustered the clans, things will be alright again.”

“Do you promise?” Alex asks, his voice cracking.

She wants to cry, but she forces herself to smile, stroking his chin. “I do.” She kisses his forehead, and then Jamie’s. “Come on, let’s pack your things.”

.

Night is falling when Jamie and Alexander set off with twenty men. Jamie kisses his brothers and sisters goodbye with a solemn, regal air, but as Meg walks him to his horse, he looks at her with tears in his eyes.

“I’m frightened, Mother.”

Her breath hitches in her throat. She takes his face in her hands, looking him in the eye. “I know. But you are a king, Jamie, and being a king means being brave in the face of fear. You are descended from some of the greatest, bravest kings and queens in history, who all faced terrible things and stood tall in the face of that terror. You will be the same.” She kisses his forehead, holding him close to her. When she pulls back, there are tears in her eyes, too, but Jamie nods. 

One of the men boosts Jamie into his saddle while Meg goes to Alexander, gripping the reins of his horse. She wants to tell him to protect Jamie, but she knows he will. She wants to tell him to be careful, but she knows he will. There is nothing to say, so she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him.

She feels a tugging at her hair and smiles, knowing he’s tugging free her ribbon. He tucks it in his breastplate with a small smile. “Fer luck,” he says, an echo of a moment almost ten years ago. 

She stands back with the children, watching as Alexander mounts his horse. He wheels his horse around, urging it into a canter; the other men follow, spurring their horses onward, and then they are all galloping towards the darkening horizon.

.

Angus comes less than an hour later.

There are fifteen men with him, bearing torches and Douglas colors. Meg goes out to meet them, trying to still the trembling in her hands. Only the sight of James brings some small comfort to her. 

“Your Grace,” Angus calls, reining up in front of the house. He has one of the ugliest beards she has ever seen, but she wisely decides not to comment on it.

“My lord,” she says coldly. “I presume you are here for my son.”

He bows his head. “I am. I trust you will heed the Privy Council’s request.”

“Come now, let’s not pretend this is a request; a request can be refused.”

“You may refuse,” Angus says coolly, “but I would not advise it.”

“Your Grace.”

She turns to see Hume at the door, one hand on Alex’s shoulder and the other carrying a bag of the boy’s things. Alex is wearing a hat over his head and a scarf around his nose and mouth...just in case.

“The king has a touch of cold,” she says, putting her hands on Alex’s shoulders and guiding him forward. “Please keep him warm.”

“Of course. We will take the very best care of His Grace.”

James dismounts to take the boy while Hume hands his bag to one of the other men. James looks at Alex, his eyes widening; he glances at Meg, who gives him a small nod.

“My lord, I pray you remember that this is your brother, and will protect him from those who wish him harm.”

“I will, Your Grace,” James says, understanding.

She leans down to look Alex in the eye. “Everything will be alright,” she says softly. “We will see each other again soon. I promise.”

His eyes shine with tears. “Mother…”

She hugs him tightly, trying to hide her own tears. “I love you so much.”

He lets out a choked sob that breaks Meg’s heart. 

“Your Grace,” James murmurs, and she clutches her son tighter. “Your Grace, the king must come with us now.”

She forces herself to let go of Alex, giving him a smile she doesn’t feel. “Go with your brother now.”

He lets James steer him to his horse, throwing looks at her over his shoulder all the while. She bites her tongue, still giving him that false smile as James lifts him into the saddle. She waves when they ride away...but as soon as they are out of sight, her hand drops to her side and she lets the tears flow freely. 

_ What have I done? _


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE BACK, BABEY! Happy Birthday to me, have a new chapter of Scottish Rose.

Meg, Hume, and the children leave for Fast Castle that night. They have to move slowly because of the litter carrying the children, and Meg keeps glancing over her shoulder to make sure they’re not being pursued. It’s a long way from Edinburgh to the Borders, and as slow-moving as they are, it would not be difficult for Angus’s men to catch up with them. 

“Stop yer worrying,” Hume orders when he catches her looking again. “Those shitey men don’t know the Borders as well as I do.”

“Those shitey men are also armed and horsed, and we have children and unarmed servants.”

“Now look here,” he says sternly. “I promised Alexander I wouldnae let anything happen te you or the bairns, and I’m a man of my word.”

She gives him a small smile. “That you are.” 

“And truth be told, I have a soft spot for the lot of ye.”

“I shan’t tell anyone, lest I compromise your fearsome reputation.”

He roars with laughter, and Meg feels a little more hopeful than she had a moment ago.

.

She has only been to Fast Castle once, but that had been twenty years ago, when she first came to Scotland to marry James. The castle has since been destroyed and rebuilt, and looks nothing like it once did. Having finished rebuilding two years ago, it is a fairly modern castle—and more importantly, well-defended. 

Built upon a rock that hangs over the sea, Fast Castle is so named because it is truly a holdfast; high on the rock, they can see enemies approaching from land and sea even when they are miles away. Meg had already known that Fast Castle was as safe a place as any to bring her children, but seeing the newly-rebuilt fortifications makes her feel even better. 

Which is why, as soon as she has seen the children settled into the nursery, she goes to speak with Hume.

“I have a boon to ask of you.”

“Ask,” he says at once.

She clasps her hands before her. “I need men. Twenty would be preferred, but I need at least ten.”

He furrows his brow. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I’m going to London, to speak with my brother.”

Hume sucks in a breath. “Meg...I dinnae know about that.”

“I don’t see that I have any other choice,” she says helplessly. “He won’t answer my letters, but if I go to him in person…”

“And what if he tries te keep you in England?” he counters. 

“He wouldn’t; he fears Scotland’s alliance with France too much for that.”

Hume still looks reluctant. “I don’t know, Meg, and not just because Alexander would have my head if he found out.”

“You may tell him that my mind was made up and nothing you could do would stop me.” She takes his hand. “I need to do this. If there’s even a  _ chance _ that I can convince Henry to stop backing the Douglases, I have to take it. For my boys. For  _ Scotland.” _

He heaves a sigh. “I imagine that even if I refused, you’d still do it.”

“Well, naturally.”

He huffs out a reluctant laugh. “At least let me come with ye.”

“No, I need you to stay here and protect my children.”

He heaves another sigh. “Fine. I’ll rustle up some men.”

She squeezes his hand. “Thank you, Hume.”

“But if something happens te you and yer husband finds out--”

“I will write a letter from the Tower exempting you from responsibility.”

_ “You’d better.” _

.

He does rustle up twenty men for her, all of them built like brick houses. They depart that afternoon, Meg riding so hard that one of the men finally wheezes that they’re like to snap the horses in two. 

“Every moment we are not in England is a moment the Douglases have to rule Scotland. Is that what you want?” she asks tartly. Even so, she does slow her pace long enough for the men and horses to catch their breaths.

London rises up over the horizon on the second day, the spires of familiar castles and cathedrals reaching towards the sky. 

It’s amazing how the city is almost exactly as she remembers it. She leads the way to Westminster without even having to think about it, knowing the way like the back of her hand.

The guard at the gate calls for her to halt and state her name and business. 

“I am Queen Margaret of Scotland,” she calls up to him. “And my business is with my brother the king.”

.

The first thing Meg notices about her brother is how old he looks.

He isn’t old, either, and she knows that. They’re only a year apart, and while she knows that she looks thirty-four, her brother looks years, even decades, older than thirty-five. It’s the beard, she decides, and wonders why so many men in her life have suddenly decided to sprout these ugly things. 

He says nothing, staring past her as though he doesn’t see her. It is left to Meg to begin the conversation.

“I suspect you know why I am here.”

He says nothing to that.

“Henry.”

He finally looks at her, almost as if he is just now seeing her before him.

“The Douglases have taken over Scotland. I know Angus lived here at court for a while. Did he make an agreement with you?”

When he says nothing to that, either, she glances at Wolsey, who she has not failed to notice has risen high above his former office of chaplain. “Has my brother lost his tongue?”

“What do you want, Meg?” Henry finally asks, his voice rough.

She lets out a small huff. “I want to know if you are helping the Douglases.”

“I always help those who are loyal to me,” he says coldly. 

“Oh, I see. You’re still throwing a tantrum that I got married and ceded the regency.”

“You had  _ one _ duty, Meg, and that was to your family!” 

“My children  _ are _ my family,” she reminds him hotly. “I married my husband to protect them!”

“From whom?”

“From Angus! Oh, yes,” she says, seeing the confusion on her brother’s face. “He didn’t tell you about that, did he? How he threatened to take my children from me if  _ I _ did not marry  _ him?” _

“You’re lying,” Henry says, but she can see that he doesn’t fully believe himself. 

“I am your sister; I have no reason to lie to you. But Angus? A disgraced traitor who lost everything?”

There’s a flicker of doubt in her brother’s eyes. “You had him exiled from court.”

“The  _ Privy Council _ had him exiled from court for  _ threatening me. _ Do you really not care that this man was trying to force your sister into marriage?”

“Oh, come on, Meg,” he snaps, his doubt hardening into anger. “You clearly aren’t very picky about  _ which _ kilted dog you marry.”

“Of course I was; I picked the one who can grow a beard and please a woman.”

Henry’s nostrils flare. “This isn’t funny, Meg.”

“You think I don’t know that?! You think I rode all the way down here to trade barbs?! Angus has my  _ son! _ My country is at  _ war! _ And you’re sitting here pretending you  _ aren’t _ paying the Douglases to take my kingdom from me?!”

“You gave your kingdom away the moment you married that bloody Scotsman!” Henry bellows. “I’m trying to take it back!”

“It was never yours to begin with!”

“Scotland and England have always been strong together, but if Scotland is in bed with France--”

“You put your own sister in France’s bed! And our father put me in Scotland’s bed to keep the peace, and that is what I’m trying to do!  _ You _ are spitting on our father’s grave by stirring up this war!”

“How  _ dare _ you talk to me like that?!” he bellows. “Everything I have done, I have done for our family! When was the last time you did anything for our family?”

“When I married a man more than twice my age who made me raise his bastard children while four of my own children died in the cradle!” she snaps. “I did that because it was our father’s will. Do you think it was his will that you should take your sister’s children from her? That you should stir up a war between our countries when my marriage was meant to bring in peace?”

“There will be peace as long as you and your bloody Stewarts stand down,” Henry tells her. “The Douglases have sworn to be leal friends to England.”

“There was peace before, and now there is only war. Do you think my son will forget this when he reaches his majority?”

“I think,” Henry says flatly, “that you should leave.”

She stares at him in disbelief. “You’re really just going to turn your back on your own family?”

“We aren’t family anymore, Meg,” he says coldly. 

Her disbelief melts into anger. “You’re right,” she says. “We’re not.” She raises a finger, compelled by a half-formed vision. “I curse you, Henry Tudor. Your line will end with your daughter. And when that day comes, a Scottish king will sit the English throne, I swear it.”

Henry gapes at her. She doesn’t give him time to respond, or give herself time to wonder what made her say those things; instead, she turns on her heel, leaving the room in a fury.

No one stops her as she goes, though she can’t tell if that’s because Henry plans to let her go or if it’s because he’s still recovering from the shock. She doesn’t give herself time to find out, making for the stables where she left her men.

“Meg!”

A woman’s voice makes her turn, and she sees a woman that is vaguely familiar hurrying towards her. She waits, wondering what the woman wants. To her surprise, the woman grabs Meg up in a hug.

“It’s so good to see you again!”

“Mary?!” she asks in disbelief, returning the other woman’s hug. 

Mary pulls back, beaming. She is a beautiful woman now, hardly recognizable from the little girl Meg left behind all those years ago. 

“I’d hoped I’d get to see you before you left.”

“Well, you won’t see much of me,” Meg says flatly. “Our brother has decided I’m not part of the family anymore.”

Mary’s smile falls. “I know. He...he’s changed, Meg. He’s so different from the person he used to be.”

“I know; the man I just met...that was not our Harry.”

“No.” Mary looks around and lowers her voice. “He is funding the Douglases. They’ve sworn to be loyal to him. But don’t worry; I’m still on good terms with King Francis. I’ve written to him to...suggest that our brother may be stirring up a war.”

Meg grips her hands. “Did you really?”

“I did. As soon as I realized what Henry was doing…” She shakes her head. “He’s never forgiven either of us for marrying the men we love. He doesn’t understand what it was like, when we were forced to marry kings who were old enough to be our fathers, and when we had a chance for love...we took it.” 

Meg smiles at her sister. “We did.”

Mary leans in to murmur, “Henry has denied your inheritance for far too long. I have taken the liberty of visiting the treasury on your behalf. Do not look in the saddlebags until you are well away from London.”

Meg’s mouth falls open. “Mary…”

“Not another word.” Mary pulls back, smiling. “Go. Win back Scotland for your son.”

Meg reaches up to kiss her sister’s cheek. “Thank you, Mary.” She gives her sister’s hands one last squeeze before she sets off to find her men.

.

They ride hard for the Borders, only stopping when absolutely necessary and only for as long as absolutely necessary. Meg doesn’t think Henry will send men after her...but then, they are no longer family by his own admission, so what’s to stop him?

They reach Fast Castle unmolested, the horses lathered from the hard ride here. Meg is breathless and sweaty, too, and climbs down from her mount on wobbling legs.

“Yer brother?” Hume asks when he comes out to greet her.

She shakes her head, still catching her breath. 

He doesn’t look surprised. “I see.”

“But,” she says, reaching for her saddlebags, “I have something even better.” She opens the bag, showing him the glittering contents. 

Hume raises impressed eyebrows. “Is that…?”

“My long overdue inheritance? It is.” She closes the bag with a smile. “And I know just how to spend it.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so close to the end!! 
> 
> There is a scene in this chapter that is borrowed HEAVILY from the 2018 Macbeth film Mark Rowley was in. You know. THAT scene.

Meg and Hume ride out from Fast Castle together to raise an army. On the one hand, she hates the thought of leaving her younger children behind, but on the other, she knows that the best thing she can do for  _ all _ her children right now is to help raise an army to defeat the Douglases. 

Alexander has rallied most of the Stewarts, who have answered his challenge to defend their clan and their king, but other clans have been more reluctant when faced with Angus and his English funds. Even Hume has had some success in calling the Border barons to aid, for they have always hated the English lords that try to claim their lands and they have no love for the Douglases because of it. But the true brunt of their forces come from the gold Meg now has in her possession.

Lords Arran and Lennox, who have long hated Angus but were too cautious to throw in their lot while he had possession of the king and funding from the English, are quick to defect once they learn that the real king is free of the Douglases and his mother has raised funds of her own. Still more reassuring is a report from France that King Francis is sending men to help his Scottish allies restore peace to their land. 

So, with an army of Hamiltons and Border men behind her, Meg leads the march to Linlithgow, where they will meet Alexander, Jamie, and the Stewart army. 

Meg grew up in the Tudor court, and knows something about the value of pageantry. She has seen, too, how quickly the Scots are to turn upon the English and those who support them, and how ready they are to embrace any enemy of the English. So when she leads her new army to Linlithgow, she wears Stewart tartan, announcing to all who see her that her interests do not just favor Scotland, but the Stewart king who would rule it. She may have been born an Englishwoman, but she is a Scottish queen now.

The result is overwhelming. When they pass through towns and villages, the people flock to the street to watch, crying out, “Queen Margaret! Queen Margaret!”

She smiles and waves to the people, tossing coins here and there to remind them who it is that will take care of them. 

In one town, children from the priory toss roses at her, their petals filling the air. A little girl with bare feet and dirty cheeks runs alongside her horse, and, unable to provide a rose, thrusts a thistle at Meg. Meg takes it and tucks it into her tartan.

It is as James said, what feels like a lifetime ago now.

_ The thistle is the flower of Scotland. It’s not a pretty thing. It’s coarse and prickly, as it needs to be to grow here. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and not for the weak. You are a Tudor rose, Meg, pretty as they come, but you must be strong, too, if you are to be queen. _

_ I am strong, _ she thinks, looking at the army behind her.  _ Men like James and Angus always saw me as a pretty rose and nothing more.  _

_ But a rose can draw blood as easily as a thistle. _

.

They are staying the night in Bathgate when a page comes to tell Meg that there is a rider from Edinburgh with news for the queen. She dresses quickly, summoning Hume and the rider when she is presentable.

The rider, muddy from travel, kneels before her. “Your Grace,” he says humbly, “I am bid to tell you that ten thousand men from France have landed at Leith and are on their way to Linlithgow now, to fight for your son James V.”

Meg grips Hume’s arm, unable to believe the sheer size of the army the king of France has sent.  _ “Ten thousand, _ did you say?”

“Yes, my queen.”

“Saints preserve us,” Hume murmurs. 

Meg pays the rider well for his tidings and orders that he shall have as much food and drink as he likes before he returns to Edinburgh. When he is gone, she turns to Hume, gripping the back of a chair so she does not sway. “Ten thousand men, plus the twenty thousand we’ve raised…”

“And at least another ten thousand Stewarts,” he says with a grin. 

“Forty thousand.” That’s even more men than fought at Flodden. She sinks into the chair, not trusting her legs to keep her upright any longer. “And the Douglases…?”

“Maybe twenty thousand. Maybe less, if they see what they’re up against. Yer brother still hasn’t sent any of his own men, I’ve noticed.”

“Nor will he. Even if he did raise twenty thousand men to take Scotland, which I know he will not, he knows Francis would only answer with more Frenchmen.” She toys with the thistle pendant she always wears now, thinking. “We will have to be careful, though. As the odds stack up against Angus, he’ll become more desperate. He still has my son, and if he doesn’t know by now that he doesn’t have the king, he will soon.”

“He won’t hurt Alex.”

“No, but he might try to pass him off as Jamie, just as we did. And he might flee Scotland again.”

“We won’t let him,” Hume says stubbornly. “Once we’ve gathered at Linlithgow, we’ll march te Stirling and surround the castle. See Angus try te get through forty thousand men who want him dead  _ then.” _

She smiles at her friend. “I like the sound of that.”

He takes her hands, kissing them. “All will be put te rights soon, Meg, and when that Douglas devil has been dealt with, it’ll be you who rules as regent.”

She huffs out a disbelieving laugh. “Me? But I’m an Englishwoman, remember?”

“It’s true I didnae like you very much at the beginning,” he says bluntly. “But I was wrong. Albany is a good man, dinnae get me wrong, but he’s always in France, and like te remain there.  _ You _ are here.  _ You _ have raised the other clans.  _ You _ faced the English king.  _ You _ are the leader Scotland needs right now.”

She is touched by these words. Even though she and Hume have grown closer over the years, she had always attributed it to their mutual love of Alexander. He had been one of her loudest adversaries at the beginning, complaining that an Englishwoman ought not lead Scotland. 

And now here he is, telling her that she is the leader that Scotland needs.

She only hopes the other nobles will think so, too. 

.

They meet the French army on the road to Linlithgow, and a great cheer goes up when Meg and the French commander, Baron d’Arces, embrace as friends. His father, he tells her as they ride together, was a close friend to the Duke of Albany, and the baron would be honored to continue that friendship with the Queen of Scotland. Meg takes his meaning: John will not be returning to Scotland.

She will miss her brother-in-law, but she understands his reasons...and if she’s being brutally honest, she is glad. If John does not return, there will be no argument for making him the regent again.

_ Thus making it all the easier for me to be named in his stead. _

.

The Stewart army camped around Linlithgow cheers when they see Meg leading her army, chants of,  _ “Margaret! Queen Margaret!” _ filling the air. She smiles at the men, but she does not truly beam until she sees Jamie and Alexander standing before the castle. When she dismounts, Jamie runs to her; she catches and kisses him, drawing more cheers. 

“Your Grace,” she says so that all may hear her, “I have brought you an army.”

_ “Hail Queen Margaret!” _ cry the men.  _ “Hail King James!” _

.

As soon as she can appropriately do so, Meg dismisses her attendants to be alone with Alexander. She and her husband have rarely been apart since they were wedded ten years ago, and though it has only been a few weeks, their reunion has all the passion of two people who have not seen each other in years. They make love several times before they are sated, sweaty and tangled in each other’s arms.

While they lie there, breath slowing and sweat cooling on their skin, Meg says, “We have forty thousand men and the king in our grasp. Now is the time to strike Stirling, before Angus can summon reinforcements from my brother or anyone else.”

“My dearest love,” Alexander murmurs, kissing her hand. “I’ve had word from James. Under cover of night, he is going te raise the gate and let in our men.”

Meg draws a sharp breath. “When?”

“Tonight.”

She releases her breath slowly. “Then Angus shall not see tomorrow.”

She can feel Alexander turning to look at her; she turns her head to meet his gaze. “He must die,” she says.

“I know. But you must understand...ye cannae order his execution without the consent of the Privy Council.”

She frowns. “He cannot live.”

“He will not.” The arm beneath her neck curls around her shoulders, pulling her closer. “He will fall in battle.”

She takes his meaning and smiles, kissing him, her passion reignited. Alexander’s low hum tells her that he is aroused again, too. 

“But,” he says suddenly, pulling back, “you must pretend you know nothing about this. He must appear te fall in battle. There will still be Douglases on the Privy Council, and if they suspect you knew Angus was going te die…”

“What?” she whispers.

He runs his fingers through her hair. “You must be the regent when the battle is won. I know it. Hume knows it. My brother knows it. Every man out there knows it. But as long as Angus breathes, the Douglases will want him fer the regent. So you must play the innocent English rose they think you are--”

“And hide my thorns,” she murmurs. “I can do that.”

He kisses her again, more eager this time, but she pulls back to say, “We should make our plans now--it is nearly seven hours’ march to Stirling, and if we are going to--”

But Alexander’s passion cannot wait; he rolls her onto her back, pinning her wrists above her head. “We will speak further,” he says shortly, and then he’s inside her and Meg can think of nothing but him.

.

They set out for Stirling an hour before sundown. Alexander rides at the head of the column, where he will lead the siege on the castle under cover of darkness. Meg and Jamie ride near the back, leading the reserves who will pick up the fallen swords after the initial attack.

It’s only been a few weeks since Meg last saw her son, but already he has changed. He had always been a happy, pleasant boy, wise but not serious, thoughtful but not solemn. He is still that happy, pleasant boy, but there’s a certain gravity to his looks and words now. He is realizing for the first time what it means to be a king.

“Mother,” he asks on the road, “was my father a good king?”

“He was,” she says truthfully. “He became king at a very young age. His own father was not a very good king, you see, and the nobles wanted your father to take his rightful place on the throne even though he was only fifteen. He was a learned man; he spoke seven different languages. He worked hard to bring peace to the clans. And he worked hard to bring peace between Scotland and England.”

“And that’s why he married you?”

“It is.” She smiles at her son. “I was the same age you are now when we were married.”

Jamie looks horrified. “But...I’m still a child.”

She laughs. “I know. I felt much the same. I was terrified when I came here, but your father was kind to me.”

He considers this. “You were both very young when you became king and queen. Fifteen and twelve.”

“We were,” she agrees. “But your father had good men to advise him. You will, too.”

“No Douglases,” he says suddenly. “I don’t want any Douglases on my Privy Council.”

“You must needs have at least one,” she says gently. “Or they will accuse you of favoring the Stewarts.”

“But I  _ do _ favor the Stewarts, I  _ am _ one.”

She laughs. “I know. But all the major clans must be represented. You cannot rule a country by only listening to the people you like. You have to listen to the people you don’t like, too. Being king isn’t about getting to do whatever you want. It is about making your kingdom a better place for all who live there. Your father hated the English, but he married me to bring peace between our two countries.”

“Then why did he march on England when I was a baby?”

“Because he had done his part in trying to keep the peace, but my brother did not uphold his end of the bargain. He denied me my inheritance because he said he did not trust the Scots, and when he marched on France, your father had to decide which alliance to keep: that with France, or that with England. Why do you think he chose France?”

“Because...they have always upheld their end of the Auld Alliance, but England did not uphold their end of our alliance.”

She nods. “Exactly. Someday, perhaps, there will be peace between England and Scotland, but not as long as Henry the Eighth sits the throne.”

Jamie shakes his head. “I can’t understand...how anyone could be so cruel to their own family. It was your own sister-in-law who made you a widow, and now your brother pays men to take my brother and me from you and rule Scotland.”

“That’s because you are a good person, Jamie, and your uncle...is not.” She smiles sadly. “He used to be a good person. Or at least, not a bad one. He was funny and charming, and I loved him dearly. Do you know...the last thing I ever said to him was, ‘Don’t let anyone poison you against your own heart.’” Her smile turns bitter. “I should have told him not to let anyone  _ including himself _ poison him against his own heart.” She clears her throat. “The point is, Jamie, anyone can become corrupt. That is why you must always strive to do better and be better.”

“I will, Mother,” he says dutifully. 

She smiles at him. “I know you will. You have always made me proud.”

He beams at her, sitting a little taller in his saddle as they march on Stirling.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are - the end! 
> 
> Thank you, thank you, thank you for reading this far. This fic has been my baby and it really means a lot that so many people have read it.
> 
> And thank you, thank you, thank you Lauren, for being my everything. This fic would not be here without you.

The battle is all but won when Meg and Jamie reach the castle. They had ridden all through the night, but Alexander and his men had ridden faster in order to slip into the castle and take it before the Douglases could even raise the alarm.

There are dead and dying men lining the walkways, the stench of blood and rot filling the air; Meg keeps her eyes ahead and breathes through her mouth, and tells Jamie to do the same. He has never seen so many dead before, and she prays he will not have to again.

The Earl of Lennox rushes out to meet them, bowing before king and queen. “Your Graces, Lord Stewart bid me take you to him; he has captured the Earl of Angus that you may accept his surrender.”

That surprises Meg, for Alexander had more or less said he was going to kill Angus in battle and make it look like an accident. Why should he spare him now?

“And my son, the Duke of Ross?”

Lennox lowers his voice as he moves closer to her. “He has not been found, Your Grace. I...believe Lord Stewart is trying to...discover his whereabouts from the Earl of Angus.”

_ Damn him. _ Angus has Alex hidden away somewhere, knowing full well they intend to kill him. But they can’t kill him if he’s the only person who knows where her son is.

“Thank you, my lord,” she says, dismounting. “We will be pleased to accept the earl’s surrender.” She rests a hand on Jamie’s shoulder, following Lennox into the keep. Stewart, Hamilton, Border, and French men cheer; Meg smiles and nods, but she cannot bring herself to feel their joy just yet.

Lennox takes them into the great keep and up to a room Meg recognizes as the king’s study. Her husband had once sat here, and after him, John. When the guard opens the door, she sees Angus inside, wrists tied to a chair while Alexander and Hume stand over him.

Lennox takes his leave, closing the door behind him.

“I understand you are refusing to give the whereabouts of my son,” Meg says coldly.

Angus strains against his bonds, eyes wide. Meg does not fail to notice his cut lip and the trickle of blood coming from his nose. “Your Grace, I swear, I do not know where he is.”

“We’ve tried hitting it out of him,” Hume says glumly. “Doesnae work.”

“It’s because I don’t know!” Angus insists. “Why would I lie? If I knew where he was, I would use him to bargain for my life!”

“Enough!” Hume rumbles, but Meg raises a hand.

“He’s right,” she says, looking into Angus’s wide, fearful eyes. “If he was planning to use Alex to bargain for his escape, he would have done so already. I believe the idiot has let an eleven-year-old slip from his fingers. When did you last see him, Angus?”

“Eh...at dinner,” Angus says, thinking hard. “I...think.”

“You  _ think?” _ Alexander demands.

“I don’t know!” Angus frets. “But I can help you find him, if you--”

“That’s enough,” Meg says, and Hume smacks the other man’s mouth to silence him. Something has occurred to her. “Where is the Earl of Moray?”

Angus spits out a mouthful of blood. “I don’t know.”

Meg shares a look with Alexander. If James  _ and _ Alex are missing, it’s likely that they are together, James protecting his younger brother. But where would they go? If the castle is under siege--

“I think I know where they are,” she realizes. “And we don’t need the Earl of Angus to find him.”

“Right,” Alexander says, taking her meaning. “Hume, you’ll stay with him?”

“Aye,” Hume says, eyeing Angus. 

Meg leads Jamie and Alexander out of the study, making for the kitchens. 

“When Edinburgh Castle was being attacked by the mob all those years ago, we hid in the storerooms,” she explains to her husband and son. “James was with us that night. If no one can find James or Alex…”

“James may have taken his brother te safety during the fighting,” Alexander finishes. “Aye, it’s a good plan.”

They reach the kitchens and take the stairs all the way to the lowest level, where cool, dry storerooms have been built into the foundation of the castle. She and Alexander try the doors, calling for James and Alex.

“Meg?” comes a voice from one of the doors.

“James?!” she calls through the door.

“Mother!”

“Alex!” 

“Give me a moment!” James calls, and she stands back, knowing he’s probably moving sacks of flour and grain, just as he had done that night in Edinburgh Castle.

At long last, the door opens, and Alex bolts free with a shout. She catches him in her arms, smothering his face with kisses as they hold each other tightly. 

“Oh, my sweet boy,” she murmurs. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Mother.” Alex smiles up at her. “Is the battle over?”

“Yes, my love, and you are free of that wretched man.”

Alex beams, and she releases him so that he can hug Jamie while she embraces James. 

“Thank you,” she whispers, holding him just as tight as she’d held Alex. “You have done...so much…”

“It is no less than my family deserves.”

She pulls back, smiling up at her stepson. Then she turns to her sons, putting her arms around their shoulders. “Come, the battle is won and the men will want to see you.”

She leads her boys, Alexander, and James up the stairs, through the hall, and out into the courtyard. Everywhere she looks, her men are standing in the courtyard and on the ramparts, and when they see the small party, they take up the cry.

_ “Hail King James! Hail Queen Margaret! Hail King James! Hail Queen Margaret!” _

.

They do not linger long at Stirling; instead, Meg takes her family back to Edinburgh Castle, and sends for her younger children to join them there. Parliament will also gather there to officially recognize her as Queen Regent. 

Angus is dead, killed by his own hand. At least, that’s the story Hume tells. He claims he left Angus alone in the study so that he might speak to Lennox in the corridor; when he returned, Angus had a hand wrapped around the hilt of a dirk, and the dirk was buried in his heart.

Meg knows that Angus’s wrists were tied to his chair when she left, but she isn’t about to say anything. Let everyone think he died by his own hand, and not from grasping a rose by its thorns.

.

When the nobles of Scotland have gathered at Edinburgh Castle, Meg calls her first Parliament in ten years.

The nobles gather in the great chamber, where Meg and Jamie take their place on the thrones. 

“Good lords of this Parliament,” she calls, and the chatter dies down. “I thank you for acknowledging my regency until Our son James is of age.” 

Most of the nobles stamp their feet in approval, beating their fists on their knees. 

“God has granted us a new era of peace and prosperity and strength in unity. We will be more than a match now for that greedy English king.”

“You mean, your brother...Your Grace.”

Meg’s hands involuntarily clench into fists as she looks at Gavin Douglas, his gaze hard upon her. He has no love for the Stewarts, and she believes he knows that Angus’s death was not a suicide. He’s a clever man, though, and has always acted out of self-preservation...but with the Douglases so disgraced, perhaps that is about to change.

“Your family,” he clarifies, 

She feels more than sees Alexander get out of his seat, standing just behind and beside her throne.

“This is my family,” she says without breaking Gavin’s gaze. 

“You are a Tudor, and you married a Stewart when you promised not to wed at all,” Gavin continues. “How can we know that you’ll keep your word?”

“How can I know that you’ll keep yours, my lord, when you yourself plotted to wed me to your nephew? And when that failed, you tried to kill my brother-in-law, the Duke of Albany, and when  _ that _ failed, you helped your nephew raise a rebellion wherein you took my son from me and allied yourself with the English. So you tell me, Gavin Douglas: of the two of us, who has more trouble keeping their word?”

Murmurs fill the throne room as the other nobles look between the Stewart queen and the Douglas patriarch. Red-faced, Gavin Douglas erupts from his seat. “I’ll not sit here and take this from a woman—”

“Then you may sit in a prison cell and take it from your queen,” she says coldly. 

Several guards move in to surround Gavin. Even angrier now, he shouts, “You cannae do this to me!”

“I can do as I wish. And I just did.”

The guards drag off a furious Gavin, who shouts and flails against his escorts all the way out of the throne room. 

As soon as he is gone, Meg looks around at the other nobles. “Anyone else?”

.

When Parliament has been dismissed without any further interjections, Meg takes her eldest son by the hand and walks with him out in the gardens. She plucks two flowers: a red rose, and a purple thistle, and then she sits with her son on a bench.

“When I first came to Scotland, your father gave me a thistle just like this one,” she tells Jamie, handing him the prickly flower. “He said, ‘The thistle is the flower of Scotland. It’s not a pretty thing. It’s coarse and prickly, as it needs to be to grow here. The land is harsh and unforgiving, and not for the weak. You are a Tudor rose, Meg, pretty as they come, but you must be strong, too, if you are to be queen.’” She holds up the rose. “People have always underestimated me because they thought I was little more than a pretty rose. But look at its stem. A rose has thorns, and they draw blood just as easily as a thistle.” She takes her son’s chin in her free hand. “There will always be people in life who underestimate you. For your age, for your family, for reasons that are beyond your ken. Sometimes you must be a thistle, coarse and prickly so none will step on you. And sometimes it is better to let them think you are a delicate rose, and wait for the right moment to draw your thorns.”

Jamie takes the rose from her carefully, twirling it in his hand. “I understand.”

She kisses his forehead. “You will be a great king, Jamie. You are the latest in a line of many great kings and queens, and your line will see many more great kings and queens. I am sure of it.”

There is a sudden commotion, and when Meg and Jamie look up, they see Alexander and Hume carrying all six of her other children, the youngest five having just arrived from the Borders.

“Found these street urchins begging at the gate,” Alexander says, and the children shriek, scrambling to be let free and run to their mother. She kneels on the ground, opening her arms to try and fit all of her children inside them. As they clamor to be heard over one another, each one jostling for their mother’s affection, she looks up at Alexander, both of them trading soft smiles. 

It’s been eleven years since Flodden. Eleven years since she lost her husband and their infant son was crowned in his place. Eleven years since she was made the Queen Regent over the protests of half the Privy Council--including Alexander. 

It has not been an easy road here. There will always be a part of Meg that resents James for riding into battle, a part of her that will always resent Catherine for leading the attack against him. There will always be part of her that wonders  _ what if? _

But at the same time, there is nothing she would do differently. These last eleven years have given her Alexander and their children, have seen her son crowned King of Scotland and her named as his Queen Regent. 

“God go with you, Meg,” her father had said the last time they ever saw each other. “Be strong for England, and be happy for yourself, my Queen of Scotland.”

She has been strong, for England, for Scotland, and for her family.

And she is happy. She is so very happy. 

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on tumblr! You can find me there as jeynepoole.


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